


This brave new world's not like yesterday

by myrmidryad



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship, Grantaire just really likes to quote stuff, M/M, Pining Enjolras, Pining Grantaire, Submissive Enjolras, and theatre references, bowling is good for the soul, eventually, gratuitous arty talk, gratuitous literary references, subjolras, when they actually get round to having sex I mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 07:43:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrmidryad/pseuds/myrmidryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire had never spoken about work in Enjolras’ hearing, and Enjolras had never really bothered to ask. The problem with this was the surprise he got about five minutes into his new job at American Bowl, the faux-American bowling alley on the edge of the tenth arrondissement.</p><p>Or, Enjolras is suddenly poor and needs a job, and Grantaire happens to work at the same place. They end up having actual conversations instead of just shouting at each other, and Enjolras realises that he actually kind of enjoys Grantaire's company. Cue meandering chatter and clumsy handling of feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strophe: Enjolras

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like the idea of Enjolras mopping a floor, okay? Don't judge me. 
> 
> Title from the song [Street Life](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=arct2SuLcZsStreet) by Roxy Music.

Grantaire had never spoken about work in Enjolras’ hearing, and Enjolras had never really bothered to ask. The problem with this was the surprise he got about five minutes into his new job at American Bowl, the faux-American bowling alley on the edge of the tenth arrondissement. 

“And this is Grantaire.” Faucher waved a hand to the man behind the bar. “Any questions?” 

“Um.” Enjolras tore his gaze from Grantaire, who looked equally surprised, and shook his head. “No, I’m good.” 

“Swell,” Faucher sighed and sloped off to his office behind the reception desk. “Do anything Rienne tells you.” 

Enjolras didn’t have time to do more than cast another wide-eyed look in Grantaire’s direction before Rienne was shouting his name. 

“Spillage on table four,” she muttered as he passed her. He looked over her shoulder to assess the damage before heading for the storage cupboard for a mop and bucket. By the time he got to the table, the little girl was on the edge of tears, and her mother was on the edge of shouting. The father and the other two kids (one boy, one girl) were clearly staying out of it. Enjolras gave the wobbly-lipped girl a smile and lifted her plate to wipe the table down. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her gently. 

It was far from the first accident of the afternoon, and Enjolras was kept busy till his mandatory break at six, and then well into the evening. The diner closed at seven, but the bar got louder as the older patrons came in to play pool and bowl, and there was still plenty of cleaning to be done till the bowling alley closed at eleven. An hour later the bar closed up as well, the final customers shuffling out to either head on or head home. 

Navid grinned at him from behind the reception desk and Rienne clapped his shoulder after she’d locked the doors. “You did pretty well,” she smiled. “Better than I expected, to be honest.” 

“Thanks?” His lower back was aching, and the soles of his feet weren’t happy about the amount of time he’d spent standing up and walking around, but he still couldn’t help smiling back at Rienne. 

“R’s always the last out.” She cast a glance over at the bar, where Grantaire was counting up the money from the register. “But if he finishes first, make sure you let Faucher know before you leave –it’s his job to lock up. I’ll see you Monday?” 

When he would start earlier, but do the same duties all over again. “Sure. Bye,” he added as Navid grabbed Rienne’s hand and tugged gently. 

“See you Monday.” Navid gave him one last smile, and then Enjolras was left alone with Grantaire, still standing behind the bar with his head bent over the register. He looked up when the side door closed, caught Enjolras’ eye for the briefest second, and ducked his head again quickly. Enjolras went over to the supply cupboard and got the vacuum cleaner out, deciding to do the diner area first. He’d wiped down the tables and put the chairs seat-down on top of them earlier, but he still needed to do the floor. 

“You’ve got my old job,” Grantaire called over just as he plugged in the vacuum. Enjolras switched it on and spoke louder to be heard over the whirr. 

“I didn’t know you worked here.” 

“I’ll bet,” Grantaire grinned. The diner backed on the edge of the bar, and when Enjolras got closer, Grantaire leaned his elbows on the barrier separating them and tilted his head. “I didn’t know you needed to work.” 

For most news, Courfeyrac couldn’t keep his mouth shut, but there were a few things he knew to keep quiet. He and Combeferre had been the first to know, of course, and Joly, Jehan, and Feuilly knew as well. Bossuet and Musichetta were doubtless informed to a degree due to Joly, but as far as Enjolras knew, the others were unaware of his recent change of fortune. 

“No?” he said, keeping his eyes on the floor. It wasn’t nice to see how much dirt and bits of food and rubbish had built up over just one day. But of course, it was a Saturday, so today was probably the busiest. 

The level of the bar was about a foot above the diner, and Enjolras saw Grantaire’s shoes shift slightly on the edge, toes just poking over. “I thought you were loaded. Your family’s rich, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” Enjolras said mildly. “But I am currently not.” 

“How come?”

Enjolras turned away with a frown, dragging the cord for the vacuum cleaner behind him. 

Grantaire straightened, and Enjolras saw him shrug out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t have to say if you don’t want. I’ll warn you though – I’ll make up my own reasons.” 

Enjolras’ lips twitched. “Oh? What reasons would you come up with?” He looked over his shoulder and smirked at the sight of Grantaire’s raised eyebrows and the smile spreading across his face. 

“Okay,” he grinned, leaning on the barrier again and making a show of thinking carefully. “Secret gambling addiction, maybe? No, too easy,” he shook his head and Enjolras turned away to keep cleaning, keeping his head slightly turned to show he was listening. “Sudden crash in stocks for…I don’t know, something dull but important. Like banana sales or something. Am I getting warmer?” 

Enjolras grinned to himself. “Not even close.” 

“Tsss. Typical. Okay, you’re suddenly poor but your family’s still rich, so…okay, this is much more feasible – you decided you were living too much of a privileged lifestyle, so you split up your income and donated chunks to different charities you carefully selected from a list provided by Combeferre. Closer?” 

“Nope. I did used to donate to charities though.” 

“Used to?” 

“Can’t afford it right now.” Having to call up each charity to tell them that he would have to stop his monthly donations had been unpleasant. 

“Wow. Okay…though can I just say that I’m not surprised _at all_ by that? Yeah, moving on…okay, here’s another one. You’ll like this.” 

“Will I?” Enjolras snorted. 

“Hey, you’ll love it. Okay, so it’s occurred to me that I’ve never seen anything of your family at all, ever, so my conclusion is that you don’t really have one, and what you actually have is a secret academy of international spies behind you, and you were sent to infiltrate activist groups that look suspect.” 

Enjolras turned around and laughed despite himself. “I _started_ Les Amis, Grantaire. With Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but still. There wasn’t anything _to_ infiltrate before we created it.” 

“Even better!” Grantaire pointed at him. “You started a suspicious activist group to find out who’s inclined to join that sort of thing!” 

“How does this explain my sudden lack of money?” Enjolras asked, amused. 

“Obviously you got in too deep,” Grantaire shrugged. “You got too attached and couldn’t bear the idea of selling out your friends, so you cut yourself off from the spy academy organisation thing, and now they’re not paying you anymore. How warm am I now?” 

Enjolras considered it. “Unbelievably, you’re actually warmer with that than the other theories.” 

Grantaire looked delighted. “Of course I am. Not sure how exactly, but I’ve been reliably informed that I can be extremely discerning when I want to be.” 

“If Courfeyrac told you that, just bear in mind that he once told Bossuet that he was a lucky charm.” 

“Bossuet _is_ a lucky charm,” Grantaire insisted. “No, look, by magically attracting all bad luck to himself, he keeps it away from the rest of us. He is cursed, but we are equally blessed by his somehow magnetic presence.” 

“Amazingly, I’m not convinced.” Enjolras switched off the vacuum cleaner and started to wind the cord around the hooks on the back. 

“That Bossuet is a lucky charm, or that I can be startlingly perceptive?” 

“Both.” 

“Is that so?” Grantaire raised his eyebrows and put his chin in his palm. “Fine. While I can’t prove Bossuet’s luck-repellence, how’s this – you’ve cut yourself off from your rich family. Am I right?” 

“I gave you clues.” 

Grantaire smirked. “Am I right?” 

Enjolras straightened and wheeled the vacuum over to the foyer. “Almost.” He heard Grantaire’s shoes tap on the couple of steps that separated the bar from the foyer and bowling alleys as he followed. 

“How close am I?” 

“They cut me off,” Enjolras said finally, crouching down to plug in the vacuum again. “Not the other way around.” 

“Huh.” Grantaire hopped up to sit on the reception desk and frowned. “How come? Again, feel free to tell me to fuck off.” His casualness was markedly different to the reactions of the other people Enjolras had told. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been angry. Joly, Jehan, and Feuilly had been sympathetic. 

“No, it’s okay,” Enjolras said, keeping his eyes down as he started to vacuum the carpet. “It was only a matter of time anyway, I think. They weren’t…they heard about me getting arrested last month. And when they heard about why, they weren’t exactly thrilled.” He and Musichetta had gotten into a heated argument with a policeman when the he’d tried to detain Joly and Bossuet for kissing in a public place. Musichetta had lost her temper and he’d barely kept it together himself. Bossuet had practically dragged Joly away – if even a speck of dirt appeared on his name he wouldn’t ever be able to professionally practise medicine – and he and Musichetta had spent the night in a cell. 

“That can’t be all,” Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “You’ve done much worse that than before.” 

“We argued,” Enjolras said, dragging the vacuum cleaner back and forth in front of him. “Loudly. And the next day, my accounts were frozen. I guess it was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.” It was probably more due to the way he'd outed himself in the heat of the moment, but he wasn’t ready to talk about that just yet. “So now I’m here.” 

“So now you’re here,” Grantaire echoed, pulling his legs up onto the desk when Enjolras came close to vacuum under it. 

“Should you really put your shoes up there?” he asked pointedly. 

“Relax.” Grantaire leaned back on his hands and grinned. “Surfaces are my job, floors are yours. Which is funny, because you’re usually the one above me.” 

Enjolras frowned at him, but Grantaire’s smile didn’t fade. “How long have you worked here?” he asked, changing the subject. 

“Oh…since last year. I’ve only been behind the bar for a few months though.” 

“And you used to clean?” 

“Yup. Start at the bottom and work up. In theory anyway.” At Enjolras’ enquiring look, he elaborated. “I only got the upgrade because the guy who worked there before left in a hurry and Faucher needed someone in there fast. He only hired you because trying to stretch the cleaning between Rienne and me wasn’t working. He’s a big fan of cutting corners and costs.” 

“Explains the shitty cleaning materials,” Enjolras muttered. 

Grantaire laughed. “Are you serious? Apollo, I bet you’ve never had a cleaning job in your life!” 

“How much?” Enjolras asked immediately, eyes glittering. Grantaire snorted. 

“Well I would say ten euro, but now you’re challenging me. So either you actually have had a cleaning job before, or you’re bluffing, and just in case I’ll lower it to five.” 

“Would I bluff when I can’t afford to lose five euro?” 

“Good point.” Grantaire lay down on the desk and put his hands behind his head, feet dangling over the edge. “But maybe you’re just bluffing really well. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you gamble for anything before, so I’m not familiar with your habits.” 

Enjolras pushed the vacuum around the other side of the desk. “I bet Courfeyrac twenty euro last year he couldn’t get permission for that rally from Javert.” The university’s head of security was notoriously hard-nosed. 

“Back when you had money to burn,” Grantaire said dryly. “And didn’t you lose that bet?” 

“But we got permission for the rally,” Enjolras grinned. “So I still won. And you have seen me gamble before.” 

“Not sure that really counts, but I’ll go with it.” Grantaire hummed and suddenly swung himself back into a sitting position. “In which case…I’ll have to go with your previous failures and say that you’re bluffing.” 

Enjolras shook his head and pulled the vacuum away, going to attack the carpet further away. Grantaire spun to keep facing him. “You owe me five euro.” 

“You think I’m just going to take your word for it? I demand proof, Apollo!” 

“I’m not answering if you keep calling me that.” 

“ _Enjolras_ then.” Grantaire rolled the syllables off his tongue and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I still want proof before I hand over my money.” 

“ _My_ money. I volunteered at a community club with Combeferre one summer. It involved cleaning up the hall at the end of each day – you can ask him if you don’t believe me.” 

Grantaire sighed. “Damn. Ah well. I’ll give you your winnings when we leave.” 

“Speaking of,” Enjolras cast him a look, “shouldn’t you be doing something?” 

“What, cleaning?” 

“Yes.” 

“In a minute.” Grantaire stretched out on his side, head in one hand, one knee up. He looked like an absurd caricature of a pin-up, and Enjolras hid an amused smile. “I’m enjoying what must be our first civil conversation in…well, ever.” 

Enjolras opened his mouth to argue, but closed it again immediately. He and Grantaire _were_ always at odds, if they ever spoke at all. They saw a lot of each other, but the others rarely allowed them to directly interact – it was for the good of everyone, Courfeyrac had insisted. Nothing ever got done if they were snarling at each other, and listening to their friends argue was never a pleasant experience for the others. 

“Plus,” Grantaire continued, “I’m looking forward to seeing how you deal with the toilets.” 

“I cleaned up some vomit in the men’s earlier – I think I’ll handle it fine.” 

“Who threw up?” 

“Some kid. Too many burgers on an overexcited stomach.” 

“Huh, thought it’d be one of mine.” 

Enjolras turned off the vacuum and raised an eyebrow. “One of yours?” 

“Yeah, you know.” Grantaire waved a hand at the bar. “One of those guys.” 

“Aren’t _you_ usually one of those guys?” Enjolras went to unplug the cord and wind it up again.

“Hence my feelings of kinship,” Grantaire said smoothly. “Though I’d like to point out that I’ve never thrown up in a bar’s toilets.” 

“Small mercies, I suppose.” 

“Ah, charming.” Grantaire got off the desk and followed Enjolras to the supply cupboard. While Enjolras got the mop and bucket, Grantaire got a couple of cloths and some disinfectant spray, leaning past Enjolras to grab them from the rickety shelf. His chest brushed Enjolras’ shoulder, and Enjolras moved away instinctively, taking the bucket behind the diner’s counter to fill it up at the sink.  

Grantaire stood at the counter and rang the service bell. “Apollooooo.” 

Enjolras didn’t turn around. “What did I say earlier?” 

“ _Enj_ olras?” 

“What?” 

“Think fast!” 

Enjolras ducked immediately, and one of the cloths Grantaire had taken hit the wall in front of him. When he turned around, he saw Grantaire throw the other one, and he reached a hand up to intercept it in mid-air. 

Grantaire shook his head. “Five marks for the first, seven for the second.” 

“Reasoning?” Enjolras asked, standing up and balling the cloths together to throw back at Grantaire, who caught them easily. 

“Five for the first because you didn’t get hit, but you didn’t try and catch it either.” Grantaire threw them back again, and Enjolras scowled as he caught them. “Seven for the second, because you caught it, but you knew it was coming, so it wasn’t as impressive.” 

“Why are you throwing them at me at all?” Enjolras snapped. 

Grantaire grinned. “Wondered if you’d just run them under the tap, that’s all.” 

Enjolras was tempted to tell Grantaire to do it himself, but there was no point in being overly antagonistic. Besides, it was nice to have someone to talk to while he worked, and Grantaire wasn’t being as irritating as usual. The least he could do was try and keep the peace. He still huffed and rolled his eyes, but Grantaire smiled when he chucked the wet cloths at him. “Thanks.” 

“Wouldn’t’ve killed you to just _ask_ ,” Enjolras told him. 

“Wouldn’t’ve been as fun,” Grantaire shrugged, spraying the surface of the counter and wiping it down with wide, practiced movements. “Live a little.” 

“I live plenty.” 

“Sure you do. What shifts are you working, by the way? Faucher never told me.” 

“Monday morning, all of Wednesday, Saturday afternoons and evenings.” 

“He’s spread it out pretty well,” Grantaire nodded appreciatively. 

Enjolras hauled the bucket out to the diner floor, glad that Nic (the guy who worked behind the counter) had already done the kitchen. “What do you mean?” 

“The floors’ll get cleaned three times a week,” Grantaire explained, “which is much better than it’s been recently.” 

“Who’s been doing it?” 

“All of us, here and there.” Grantaire finished the counter and went to wring out the cloths in the sink. “But it’s not like anyone likes working for free, so none of us did a decent job. And Faucher does fuck-all but give us orders and jerk off in his office.” 

Enjolras snorted and got mopping, working from the back to the front. “Does he know you talk about him like that?” 

“Are you going to tell him?” Grantaire challenged. He grinned when Enjolras gave him a withering look. “I’m pretty sure if he knew I talked like that, he’d fire me.” 

“Why risk it?” 

“Where’s the risk?” Grantaire laughed and slouched off to the bar. “Mind if I hijack the speakers?” 

“As long as you don’t play that song that’s been playing all night.” 

“Which one’s that?” 

“They say ‘hey’ a lot.” There was a moment of silence, and when Enjolras looked up he saw that Grantaire was leaning on the barrier again, a shit-eating grin on his face. “What?” 

“Well,” Grantaire’s grin seemed to grow. “I _think_ I know the one you mean, but I can’t be sure unless you sing it.” 

Enjolras glowered at him. “I am _not_ singing it. It’s bad enough that I can’t get the damn thing out of my head.” 

“Songs in the charts are notoriously catchy,” Grantaire agreed. “But unfortunately, unless you sing it, there’s no guarantee it won’t come on.” 

“Does that mean you have that song on your iPod?” Enjolras wrinkled his nose, and Grantaire laughed. 

“Since I don’t know which song you’re talking about, who knows? I have thousands of songs on my iPod. It might be on there, it might not.” 

“You know which song I’m talking about.” 

“Do I though?” Grantaire shot him a parting grin and went over to the bar to plug in his iPod. Enjolras didn’t recognise the music that started playing, but it wasn’t the damn ‘hey hey hey’ song, so it was okay with him. 

He realised what it was when the chorus came around and the singer belted, “A-whoooooo, werewolves of London!” 

“Wasn’t this the song that got you and Bahorel kicked out of that bar?” he called over the barrier. Grantaire looked round from where he was wiping down the surfaces and smirked. 

“Might be. How’d you know about that?” 

“Yes, then.” Enjolras snorted and dunked the mop back in the bucket. “And how do you think?” 

“Courfeyrac?” 

“Who else?” 

“Did he include the bit about Bahorel ripping his shirt off?” 

Enjolras stifled a laugh. “He tried to mimic it, actually.” 

Grantaire snickered. “Of course he did.” 

They stopped talking for a while as Enjolras started mopping the bowling alleys, too far away from the bar to keep up an easy conversation, but he couldn’t resist shouting when the Glee version of _Don’t Stop Believin’_ started blaring from the speakers. “Is this _Glee?_ ” 

“Did you just _recognise_ Glee?” Grantaire yelled back, entirely too pleased. 

If he’d been close enough, Enjolras would have thrown something at him. “I live with Courfeyrac,” he reminded him. “Of course I recognise it.” 

“Then I hope you know all the words!” Grantaire called, and Enjolras groaned as he started to sing. “Just a small town girl, living in a _lonely_ world –” 

Despite his distaste for the song (Courfeyrac had played it to the point of Combeferre actually confiscating his iPod and laptop until he promised to stop), it was impossible not to notice that Grantaire actually had a very good voice. By the time it ended, Enjolras was over by the bar again, and before he went to clean the toilets he caught Grantaire’s eye and smirked. “I didn’t know you could sing.” 

Grantaire was a little breathless from belting out the lyrics, and Enjolras wasn’t sure if his face was pink from that or whether he was blushing. “Why thank you, Apollo. Can you?” 

“I’m not singing that song.” 

“Who said I wanted you to sing _that_ song?” Grantaire shouted after him as Enjolras hauled the mop and bucket into the men’s toilets. He didn’t bother replying, but he couldn’t help smiling to himself when Grantaire put _Under Pressure_ on and sang along obnoxiously loudly just so Enjolras would hear him. 

He flipped Grantaire off as he moved from the men’s to the ladies’ and grinned when the Grantaire put _Don’t Stop Me Now_ on next. 

“...defying the laws of gravity! I’m a racing car passing by, like _Lady Godiva!_ I’m gonna go, go, go, there’s no stopping meeeeeeee!” Grantaire belted, and as Enjolras turned he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors. He was grinning like a complete idiot, and he couldn’t bring it down further than a crooked smile. Grantaire was actually making what he’d expected to be a boring evening surprisingly enjoyable. 

The song stopped suddenly, mid-chorus, and Enjolras stopped wiping down the sinks as the sound of shouting filtered through the door. 

“…not bloody paying you to host your own karaoke night!” Silence as Grantaire replied, too quiet for Enjolras to hear. “And where the fuck is the new guy?” More silence, and Enjolras started wiping again as footsteps approached the door. It opened with a dramatic bang, and Faucher glared in. “Are you deaf or something?” 

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and straightened. “Pardon?” 

“Could you not hear the ceiling _shaking_ just now?” 

“Nope.” Enjolras shrugged one shoulder. “Sounded fine to me.” 

Faucher narrowed his eyes. “I don’t care which one of you decided to pull this shit, but if it happens again you’ll regret it. Okay?” 

Enjolras decided not to push it. He needed this job. “Sure.” 

“Good.” Faucher shot him one last poisonous glare and exited as dramatically as he’d entered. Enjolras finished cleaning, and when he came out Faucher was back in his office, and Grantaire was wiping down the surfaces of the little tables at the end of each bowling alley, humming quietly to himself. 

“So,” Enjolras said loudly, “what was that about _not stopping you?_ ” 

Grantaire turned and lifted his hands palm-up in an exaggerated shrug. “Some people just don’t appreciate good music. It’s tragic, but I think trying to educate him would only end in further reprisals. You know that saying – don’t poke angry bears with sticks.” 

Enjolras let out a surprised laugh. “Is that a saying?” 

“You’ve never heard that before?” 

Enjolras shook his head and went to the kitchen to empty the bucket. “It sounds like you just made it up.” 

“Entirely possible,” Grantaire admitted cheerfully. “You done now?” 

“Not yet. I forgot to vacuum the bar earlier.” He rinsed the bucket out and took it back to the storage cupboard, feeling Grantaire’s eyes on him. “You can go – I’m pretty sure Faucher won’t care.” 

“He’d be glad to see the back of me,” Grantaire agreed, but made no move to leave. If anything, he seemed to be slowing down. “I’m not done yet though. We could probably walk back together, if you…y’know, if you don’t mind.” 

“Sure.” Enjolras gave him a quick smile on his way to the bar, dragging the vacuum behind him. “Yeah.” 

“Okay. Cool.” Grantaire turned away, but Enjolras still heard the smile in his voice. 

They kept talking until they both finished cleaning up, and Grantaire popped his head into Faucher’s office to tell him they were both leaving. They talked all the way back to the crossroads where Grantaire had to change direction to get back to the apartment he shared with Marius. 

Enjolras shared an apartment with Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan, and Combeferre was still up when he came in. “Hey,” he said, not looking up from the books spread over the kitchen table. “How was your first day?” 

“Did you know Grantaire worked there?” Enjolras asked, going to the fridge. “Tea?” 

“I’m on coffee.” Combeferre looked up and frowned. “I thought Grantaire worked at a bar?” 

“There’s a bar there,” Enjolras explained, putting the kettle on. There was a long pause, and when he looked round he saw that Combeferre was staring at him. “What?” 

“You’re not frothing at the mouth or about to burn up with repressed rage.” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “What a shame?” 

Combeferre put his pen down and shrugged. “Well, it’s just that that’s the state R tends to bring out in you. Not that I’m complaining – this is definitely healthier. How was it?” 

“What, my interaction with Grantaire, or the cleaning?” Enjolras asked dryly, getting a mug out. 

“Both.” 

“Fine. Both fine.” Enjolras grabbed a teabag from the communal jar. “My feet hurt a bit, but that’s all. Grantaire was surprisingly…civil.” 

“Jesus.” 

“What?” Enjolras got a spoon out. 

“You’re _smiling_.” 

“Am I not allowed to do that?” Enjolras asked sarcastically, willing himself to assume a more serious expression. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile at anything Grantaire-related, that’s all.” 

“As long as he doesn’t talk about world affairs, he’s alright,” Enjolras admitted, meeting Combeferre’s surprised gaze as openly as possible. “I told him about getting cut off and he didn’t make a big deal out of it or anything.” 

“He’s a good person,” Combeferre nodded, apparently getting over his shock. “Brilliant, actually. Courfeyrac will be relieved – I think he’d given up all hope.” 

“All hope of what?” Enjolras frowned. “And where is he, anyway?” 

“Out with Jehan and the others,” Combeferre took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face. “And hope of you and R ever getting on. You know how he takes these things personally.” 

Enjolras nodded. Courfeyrac hated it whenever anyone was upset or discontent, and if he wasn’t stopped he would break his own back trying to make them happy again. “He wasn’t as bad as he usually is,” he said, turning his attention to the kettle as it boiled. 

“Did you actually enjoy yourself?” Combeferre grinned. 

“It was okay,” Enjolras avoided his eyes. “Better with someone to talk to.” 

“Even when that someone is Grantaire?” 

Enjolras gave him a searching look. “What are you getting at?” 

Combeferre shrugged, the picture of innocence. “Nothing much. Just that I didn’t think – no one ever thought – you’d ever like R. There’s a reason why the rest of us conspire to keep you two apart, you know.” 

Enjolras resisted the urge to stick his tongue out. “I like him fine,” he said, realising as he spoke that it was true. “It’s his views I take issue with.” 

“Oh? You mean you have a problem with his pessimism and his relentless cynicism? Or is it also the way he can sleep through an entire meeting and still give a perfect summary of everything we spoke about at the end?” 

“And the way he comes to every single meeting and makes no useful contributions because he’s too busy trying to distract everyone and tear down our ideas?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow at Combeferre’s smirk. “I have a few problems with it, yes.” 

“Well, either way,” Combeferre finished his coffee and shuddered. “I’m just glad you didn’t spend the whole time shouting at each other. Maybe you’ll actually get to know the man beneath the mask this way.” 

“What mask?” Enjolras snorted. “He makes his feelings on everything perfectly clear.” 

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “By everything, you mean everything brought up in meetings and when we’re just hanging out together?” 

“Yes?” 

“Right. Do you know anything about Grantaire himself?” 

Enjolras hesitated. “He does art?” 

“Anything else?” 

“He drinks a lot.” 

Combeferre laughed, not unkindly. “I rest my case. You know nothing about what he’s like as a person.” 

“Do you?” Enjolras challenged. Combeferre leaned back in his chair and smirked. 

“I know more than you and less than Marius and Jehan. I know he’s got a sister and that he hates sketching with graphite. I know he taught Bahorel kickboxing. I know he and Cosette work together to pay for Marius’ drinks and stuff when we’re out together. I know he failed his driving test three times before he passed it. I know he once got Joly to draw the inside of his arm on his skin – bones, veins, arteries, and so on.” 

“Alright, I get it,” Enjolras said tetchily. “You know more about Grantaire than I do.” 

“Enjolras, everyone knows more about Grantaire than you do. It’s not difficult when all you do is argue about politics and protests. So I think this job will be good – as long as you avoid the topics you always argue about, maybe you’ll actually get to know him.” 

“And vice versa?” 

“I think he already knows a fair bit about you,” Combeferre made a show of going back to his books, and Enjolras took his tea to his bedroom, frowning slightly. 

 

Enjolras didn’t see Grantaire on Monday morning, but he turned up at one on Wednesday and gave Enjolras a cheery wave as he slid behind the bar. That night they closed up again the way they had on Saturday, talking back and forth as they cleaned, Grantaire obviously going slower than he had to so they finished at the same time and walked back together. 

Between them, they were good at keeping the conversation away from divisive topics, and it flowed easily. It was strange at first to not be talking about the issues that usually occupied him – the upcoming protest against scholarship cuts, the essays he had to write, the books he had to read, the research he had to keep up with – but it was nice to have a break from it a few times each week. When he was talking to Grantaire, he wasn’t thinking about it. 

 

“In a hurry?” Enjolras gave Grantaire a pointed look. Grantaire finished scrubbing down the bar and grinned sheepishly. 

“I’ve got some stuff to catch up on. I’m not leaving yet – I just need to do some sketching.” 

“What are you working on?” Enjolras dunked the mop into the bucket and shook the excess water out before letting it hit the floor with a wet splat. 

Grantaire stared at him, the corner of his lips turning up slightly. “You’re interested?” 

“Sure.” Enjolras looked over at him and shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Never really had you down as an art fan.” 

“I don’t know much about it, that’s all.” 

“Ha.” Grantaire jumped over the barrier, carefully avoiding landing on the part of the diner floor Enjolras had already mopped. “I bet you’re a Delacroix fan.” 

“Who?” Enjolras turned his head to keep his eyes on Grantaire as he replaced the cloths in the supply cupboard. 

“He did that painting – ‘Liberty Leading the People’? You must’ve seen it. It’s right up your street.” He winked and clambered back over the barrier, going over behind the bar and getting his bag out. 

Enjolras’ lips twitched. “Oh _that_. I have a full-size poster of it in my bedroom.” 

Grantaire dropped his bag. Enjolras looked up and grinned at him, and Grantaire narrowed his eyes. “Are you serious?” 

“Depends. Are you willing to put money on it?” 

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Grantaire picked his bag up and dragged a hand across his face. “It is too late for this.” 

“I guess you’ll never know for sure.” 

“Urgh, fine.” 

“Five euro?” 

“What else?” Grantaire sat at the bar and pulled a thick sketchbook from his bag. It was large and square, ring bound with lots of things stuck in it. It creaked slightly when Grantaire opened it and started flicking through to find whatever he was looking for, and Enjolras caught glimpses of bright colours and patches of material glued to the pages. A large white feather was on the verge of falling out before Grantaire turned a page on top of it, keeping it in place. “Okay,” he said, finally finding his place and putting his chin in his hand. “What this really boils down to is whether or not I believe you’re insane enough to have bought a full-size poster of this painting.” 

Enjolras said nothing, and kept his eyes on the floor as he dragged the mop across the fake wood. 

“Wait, hang on,” Grantaire snapped his fingers. “I’ve got you now – how big _is_ its full size?” 

Crap. Enjolras shrugged and looked up, trying for unconcerned. “A couple of metres, maybe. Pretty big.” 

“Width or height?” 

“You can’t interrogate me to try and trick me out of five euros,” Enjolras argued. Grantaire smirked. 

“Don’t need to. You’re lying.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“A hundred percent. At _least_ ninety-eight percent.” 

Enjolras sighed and picked the bucket up to take it over to the alleys. “Fine, you win, it’s not in my room.” 

“Ha!” 

“It’s my phone background.” 

“Bollocks,” Grantaire said confidently, spinning on his stool and balancing his sketchbook on his legs, one ankle resting on the other knee to create a triangle. “I’ve seen your phone background – it’s that photo of all of us lifting Jehan on our shoulders after he won that poetry competition.” 

“I meant my desktop picture.” 

“You are a _pathological liar_ , you know that?” Grantaire sounded gleeful and Enjolras couldn’t help smiling as he took the bucket to the far end of the alleys. “It’s terrible, Enjolras. Your gambling will get you into trouble one day.” 

“I only ever gamble with you,” Enjolras called, and Grantaire saluted before he bent his head over the sketchbook. Enjolras was sure he wasn’t imagining the feeling of being watched, but every time he looked over, Grantaire was busy working. He lost himself in the rhythm of the mopping, doing each lane as he came to them until he was finally by the bar again. “Can I see?” he asked when he’d finished, slightly hot from working under the bright lights. 

Grantaire pursed his lips. “No? Um,” he looked away and frowned. Enjolras tried not to look disappointed. “Maybe? I don’t…um, this one isn’t finished yet, so…maybe then. When it’s finished, I mean.” 

“What about the other stuff?” Enjolras looked at the bulging pages already filled, and Grantaire pulled the book a little closer before closing it and looking down. 

“Maybe when it’s finished. Don’t you owe me five euro?” 

Enjolras sighed. “Remind me at the end of the week.” 

“Hey, maybe you’ll’ve won it back by then,” Grantaire smirked, wariness gone as suddenly as it had appeared. 

“Maybe,” Enjolras shrugged and started to carry the bucket and mop over to the kitchen. 

 

“Have you seen Grantaire’s art?” Enjolras asked Jehan suddenly. 

Jehan looked up from his book and blinked fuzzily. Books about WWI trench warfare were scattered around the sofa and three empty coffee mugs were on the table. “What?” 

“Have you ever seen Grantaire’s art?” Enjolras asked again. 

“Is this related to WWI poetry?” 

“No.” 

Jehan sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes. Enjolras could practically hear the cogs turning in his head before he exhaled and got to his feet quickly. “Okay. I’m having another coffee. What was your question?” 

“Have you seen Grantaire’s art?” Enjolras repeated, and, “Do you really think you need more caffeine?” 

“Coffee boosts productivity,” Jehan sang. “And you’re hardly one to talk. As for Grantaire, sure, I’ve seen some of his stuff – I modelled for him last semester, a bit. It was multimedia or something? So we went flower-picking and we must’ve pressed hundreds of flowers.” 

“Was that what you were doing when you put books under all the furniture?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow and Jehan nodded. 

“Uh huh. I’ve been up to his studio space too – it’s really cool. Definitely better than last year.” 

“What was last year?” 

Jehan pulled a face. “They were told to focus on themselves, so R’s stuff for that was pretty dark. Conventionally ugly in places, but overall very effective. Loads of bottles.” 

“O…kay?” Enjolras shook his head and frowned down at his laptop. He’d been working on this essay for hours, and it wasn’t getting any better. 

“Why do you ask?” Jehan yawned, getting a new mug out of the cupboard just as the kettle boiled. 

“He wouldn’t let me see his sketchbook, that’s all.” 

“Is it a recent one?” 

“I guess. He was drawing in it at work. After we finished, obviously.” 

“What was he drawing?” 

Enjolras scowled. “I don’t know – he wouldn’t let me see.” 

Jehan leaned against the counter and grinned suddenly. “Awwww.” 

“What?” Enjolras snapped. 

Jehan’s smile only grew. “You’re all sulky. It’s kind of adorable.” Enjolras glared at him, but Jehan only laughed. “Don’t worry about it – he hates people seeing his in-progress stuff. He doesn’t even like working in the studio. Only does it if he absolutely has to, or goes in after everyone else has left.” 

Enjolras frowned at him. “But you’ve seen it?” 

Jehan waved a hand. “Never his sketchbooks. Only the finished work and the stuff in his studio space. He’s probably just wary of letting you see it, that’s all.” 

“Why?” Enjolras asked, confused. 

“It’s…” Jehan sucked his lower lip between his teeth. “It’s like…it’s okay for you to bash his opinions on stuff like politics, but his art is more personal. It’s more like my poetry, y’know? If you attacked that, it’d be…well, not nice.” 

“I thought you said poets and other artists had to grow thick skins?” Enjolras twirled his pen between his fingers for lack of something to do. 

“For the criticisms of strangers, yes. Fellow writers, yes. Friends and family are different. I actually care what you think, and Grantaire does too, even though he pretends he doesn’t most of the time. When I write, sometimes I’m bearing my soul, you know? It’s the same with any artist, whether the medium is words or paint. And having your soul judged by the people whose opinions matter the most to you is terrifying. It’s much easier to perform to a room of strangers than a room of friends.” Jehan poured water into his mug and dumped a few spoons of sugar into it, the spoon clanking against the sides loudly as he stirred. “R cares about your opinion. Showing you his work would be a massive leap of faith.” 

“Why should my opinion matter to him?” Enjolras asked. “He doesn’t care what I think about anything else.” 

“Maybe that’s because he doesn’t give you anything important to think _about_.” Jehan gave him a pointed look and padded back to his nest of books. “No more questions – I have poetic context to memorise and tragic deaths to cry over.” 

“Try and go to bed before three?” 

“I can’t make any promises.” 

 

“You have read the Harry Potter books, right?” Grantaire stared at him, and Enjolras shrugged. 

“I’ve seen the movies.” 

“Please tell me you’re joking.” 

“I’m joking.” 

Grantaire glared at him over the top of the sketchbook – this one was huge, A2 size and extremely unwieldy, but Grantaire had hauled it out as soon as he’d finished doing the surfaces. Enjolras was still vacuuming the foyer. “You’d better be.” 

“How much do you want me to be?” 

“So much, you can’t imagine. My heart bleeds for anyone whose eyes haven’t been opened to the joys of Harry Potter.” 

Enjolras smirked at him. “Willing to put money on it?” 

Grantaire pointed at him. “You have a _serious_ problem!” 

“Could it be the lack of Harry Potter in my life?” Enjolras bent down to get the vacuum under the reception desk and grinned to himself. “Or the money I’m about to win?” 

Grantaire made a frustrated noise, but when Enjolras looked over his shoulder he wasn’t hiding his smile. “You’re a Slytherin if I ever saw one.” 

Enjolras straightened and shoved the vacuum over to where the carpet stopped and the lanes began. “Was that supposed to be an insult?” 

Grantaire laughed and fell silent for a few moments. “Okay,” he said finally, “I bet five euros that you haven’t read the books.” 

“You owe me five euros.” 

“Goddammit!” Something small hit Enjolras’ shoulder, and when he looked down he saw a red ballpoint pen on the floor. 

“Did you just throw a _pen_ at me?” 

“I don’t believe you’ve read the books!” Grantaire shouted over the whine of the vacuum. “You’re a liar!” 

“Test me.” Enjolras switched off the vacuum and picked up the pen, going over to give it back. “Ask me anything you want.” 

Grantaire pulled his sketchbook up against his chest as Enjolras approached and chewed the inside of his cheek. “Okay.” He fixed Enjolras with a calculating look. “What was the name of Barty Crouch’s House Elf?” 

“Winky,” Enjolras answered promptly, holding out the pen. Grantaire snatched it and scowled. 

“You’d definitely be a member of SPEW. Ah – what does SPEW stand for?” 

Enjolras had to think for a moment. “The…Society for the Protection of Elf Welfare?” 

Grantaire sighed. “Close enough. It’s the _Promotion_ of Elf _ish_ Welfare, but I won’t hold it against you.” 

“How generous of you.” 

“It is generous; you’re getting five euro out of this.” 

Enjolras smirked and went back to the vacuum. “Shouldn’t have doubted me.” 

“When the hell did you read Harry Potter anyway?” 

“Combeferre’s a big fan. He forced me into it in high school.” 

“Do you even own the books?” 

“I own the audio books.” He switched the vacuum on and went back to cleaning. 

“Aha!” Grantaire shouted triumphantly. “Then you _haven’t_ read the books!” 

“Audio books are exactly the same.” 

“That’s not the point!” Grantaire insisted. “I bet you hadn’t _read_ the books, and you haven’t! You’ve _listened_ to them!” 

Enjolras scowled at him. “It makes no difference. I’ve absorbed the content either way.” 

“But the bet wasn’t about whether you’d ‘absorbed the content’ or not,” Grantaire grinned. “It was about whether you’d _read_ the books, and you haven’t!” 

“For God’s sake.” Enjolras finished the carpet and switched the vacuum off with one hand and fished his phone out with the other. “We’ll get an outside opinion.” 

“Not Combeferre!” Grantaire put his sketchbook on the bar and started walking over. “He’s your best friend; he’s biased.” 

“Who isn’t biased then?” Enjolras asked, irritated. 

Grantaire mulled it over as he approached. “Joly,” he decided. 

“It’s twenty to one – he’ll be asleep.” Joly tried to be asleep before midnight at least three days of each week. Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure why, but he did know the schedule, and Wednesday was one of the days Joly slept early. 

“Shit, right, I always forget about that. Okay, Jehan?” 

“He thinks e-books are the Devil’s creation,” Enjolras said dryly. “ _That’s_ biased. What about Feuilly?” 

“He listens to audio books all the time! He’s more biased than Jehan!” 

“Fine, what about Cosette?” 

Grantaire inhaled, then nodded. “Call her.” 

“On it.” Enjolras lifted his phone to his ear and rolled his eyes when Grantaire put his head on the other side. 

“What?” he asked defensively. “I have to be sure you’re not cheating.” 

“This is ridiculous.” Enjolras could feel Grantaire’s hair against the back of his hand, and when he moved, soft curls brushed his temple. “ _You’re_ ridiculous. And you need a haircut.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Grantaire snorted. Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly Cosette picked up. 

“Hey, what’s up?” 

“Settle this for us,” Enjolras said, catching Grantaire’s eye. “Do audio books count as having read the book?” 

“That’s not the question!” Grantaire said loudly before Cosette could reply. 

“R? Is that you?” 

“That’s exactly what the question is!” Enjolras snapped. 

“No it isn’t,” Grantaire protested. “No, listen, Cosette – I bet Enjolras that he hadn’t read the Harry Potter books, okay? And he hasn’t, he’s only listened to the audio books. Tell me that doesn’t count!” 

“It totally counts!” Enjolras objected. 

“I can’t believe you’re calling me about this,” Cosette said flatly. “Are you at work right now?” 

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Grantaire muttered, “Maybe?” 

Cosette sighed. “I have the worst friends. Okay – listening to a book is exactly the same as reading it –” 

“Ha!” Enjolras grinned. 

“Wait!” Cosette said firmly. “Listening to a book is the same as reading it, but the phrasing of the bet means that you lost it, Enjolras.” 

“What?” Enjolras’ expression fell and Grantaire crowed victoriously. 

“However,” Cosette continued, “that wasn’t specified. So in the interests of fairness, I personally think it should be a draw, and neither of you wins.” 

“He has to admit he lost first,” Grantaire grumbled. 

It wasn’t worth losing the money for his pride. Enjolras sighed heavily. “Fine, I lost. But you didn’t win either.” 

“Whatever.” Grantaire moved away from the phone and shrugged, grinning. “I’m used to that. Thanks, Cosette!” 

“I’m hanging up now,” she said, and proceeded to do just that. 

Enjolras put his phone back in his pocket and glared at Grantaire’s obnoxious smirk. “Listening is exactly the same as reading,” he snapped finally, and when Grantaire laughed it was impossible not to smile reluctantly as well. 

 

“Bowling is obviously good for the soul,” Courfeyrac declared. Enjolras stared at him. When Courfeyrac didn’t say anything else, he looked quizzically at Jehan and Combeferre, walking either side of Courfeyrac as they made their way back to their apartment. 

“You’re getting on better with R, and Courfeyrac’s happy about it,” Combeferre translated. 

“And for some reason he’s attributing it to bowling,” Jehan added. 

Enjolras nodded and waited for Courfeyrac to look at him. “You are aware neither of us actually bowls there, aren’t you?” 

Courfeyrac waved a hand. “Details. The point is, you don’t roll your eyes every time he opens his mouth. It’s not much, admittedly, but it’s definitely progress.” 

“Towards what?” Enjolras asked. 

Courfeyrac beamed. “Towards the two of you eventually _discussing_ your opposing views instead of screaming them at each other, and still being able to be in the same room with each other afterwards.” 

“They don’t talk about that stuff,” Combeferre said gently after a moment. 

“Which explains why they’re both still alive,” Jehan muttered. 

Enjolras frowned at him. “We’re not that bad.” 

“Aren’t you?” Jehan gave him a knowing look. 

“Hang on,” Courfeyrac cut in, frowning, “if you don’t talk about ‘that stuff’.” He exaggerated the air quotations for Combeferre, who smiled. “What do you talk about?” 

Enjolras shrugged. “Other stuff.” 

“What kind of stuff?” 

“I don’t know,” Enjolras looked up at the sky and shrugged again. “Everything else, I suppose.” 

“Like what?” Courfeyrac slipped between Enjolras and Jehan and grabbed his arm. “Enjolras, you don’t understand – I _need_ to know.” 

“ _Why?_ ” 

“Because the suspense is terrible?” 

“I hope it’ll last,” Combeferre said dryly. Courfeyrac threw him a blinding grin over his shoulder, then immediately went back to wringing the life out of Enjolras’ elbow. 

“Get off.” Enjolras shook him away, not harshly. “I don’t know, other things. He plays music sometimes. I’m trying to get him to read _War and Peace_. We talked about Harry Potter the other day.” 

“Oh my God, _really?_ ” Courfeyrac sounded ecstatic, and Enjolras gave him a look of concern. 

“What’s so great about that?” 

“Everything!” Courfeyrac grabbed his arm again and shook it. “It’s not scary stuff! Well, maybe _War and Peace_ is –” 

“It’s a great book,” Enjolras objected, wounded. 

“It’s also about as thick as my head,” Courfeyrac reminded him. 

“So get the audio book.” 

Jehan made a sound of distaste they all ignored. 

“The point is,” Courfeyrac clutched his arm tighter, “you’re talking to him about _ordinary_ stuff. I’m so proud of you.” 

“Please let go.” Enjolras plucked gingerly at his fingers. “Jehan?” 

“Come here.” Jehan grabbed Courfeyrac’s wrists and tugged him away. 

“I still don’t see what the big deal is.” Enjolras looked at Combeferre – he could usually be relied on to explain things properly. 

“Ignore them,” Combeferre advised. “You like talking to Grantaire?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then keep doing it. It’s that simple.” 

“I wasn’t aware of anything stopping me.” 

“Just don’t bring up anything thorny,” Combeferre reminded him. “At least for now.” 

Enjolras didn’t miss the looks he exchanged with Jehan and Courfeyrac, but he decided to leave it be. He _did_ like talking to Grantaire. And Grantaire seemed to enjoy talking to him. It was only when he thought of it like that that the possibility of Grantaire _not_ wanting to talk to him reared its head, and he frowned. 

“You okay?” Jehan asked. 

“Fine,” he lied. “I’m fine.” 

“You’re seeing him tomorrow, right?” 

“It being Saturday tomorrow, yes.” 

Jehan nudged him and grinned. “Tell him Dionysus may yet be Carnus or Iapyx – the odds appear to be in his favour.” 

Courfeyrac whistled, impressed. “That is fucking obscure.” 

Enjolras was lost. “What the hell does that mean?” 

Jehan linked their arms and laughed. “He’ll know. Can you remember it?” 

“Dionysus might –” 

“May yet be,” Jehan corrected him. “The wording has to be right.” 

“Of course it does.” Enjolras rolled his eyes, but obediently repeated it word for word after Jehan until he was satisfied. What it would mean to Grantaire, he had no idea.

  

Enjolras had to speak loudly to be heard over the buzzing noise filling American Bowl. Mid-afternoon on Saturday was the busiest time, but Enjolras had slipped over to the bar to give Grantaire Jehan’s weird message in case it was urgent (though if it was, surely Jehan would have just texted Grantaire, not made Enjolras act as the messenger). 

“He said what now?” Grantaire coughed. 

“Dionysus may yet be Carnus or Iapyx – the odds appear to be in his favour,” Enjolras recited, and raised an eyebrow. “Does that actually mean anything to you?” 

Grantaire made a strangled noise and pointed behind Enjolras. “Nic wants you.” 

Enjolras looked around and saw the cook beckoning him over and pointing to a party of kids who’d managed to upend one of the tables in the diner. “I hate small children,” Enjolras murmured. 

“Aw, but you’re so good with them,” Grantaire teased, apparently over his shock now the subject had been changed. 

“Only because I need the money,” Enjolras sighed and started to make his way over. He didn’t have the opportunity to speak to Grantaire again until the place closed up and Rienne and Navid left together, holding hands as usual. 

Any attempts to bring up the message again were pre-emptively derailed by Grantaire, who expertly steered the conversation into a discussion on the topic of fear. 

“It’s far scarier knowing that there are people who genuinely conspire to keep other people in an oppressed state,” Enjolras argued, vacuuming ferociously. “Ghosts just don’t have the same effect.” 

“You are talking absolute bullshit.” Grantaire shook his head, spraying the reception desk and wiping it down with equal fervour. 

“Wow, great point,” Enjolras said sarcastically. “You’re absolutely right, why didn’t I think of that?” He was expecting the cloth when it was thrown at him, and he barely looked up to catch it and throw it back. Grantaire harrumphed and went back to wiping. 

“Look, I’m just saying that that’s not fear as I was defining it.” 

“Doesn’t the knowledge that if you do something the powers that be deem to be against the rules, they can make your life a complete misery scare you?” 

Grantaire hummed and straightened, squinting thoughtfully. Enjolras looked over at him and waited for his answer with no small amount of curiosity. “It…unsettles me,” Grantaire said at last, looking over at him. “But it’s not _fear_ exactly, not the way I was thinking of it. It’s more dread than anything else.” 

“Dread implies you’re expecting it to happen to you,” Enjolras pointed out. 

Grantaire shrugged. “I’m not exactly squeaky clean, and yeah, if I fuck up I know I could really be hit hard by it, but that’s not what freaks me out at night.” 

“It _isn’t?_ ” Enjolras had spent hours lying in bed, unable to sleep because his mind was so infuriatingly busy with thoughts like that. He fully expected to end up with a criminal record at the very least – the sort of protests and rallies he intended to continue organising and participating in weren’t conducive to a quiet life. 

Grantaire just scoffed. “Please. Look, when you were little you didn’t know about that sort of stuff, right?” 

Enjolras slowed down slightly. “I suppose not. Not to the same degree, anyway.” 

“Right. But all kids are scared of something, usually lots of somethings. Unexplained somethings. Like…” He waved the hand holding the cloth, leaning his hip against the reception desk. “Like monsters under the bed, y’know? Aliens. Werewolves, vampires – monsters, for God’s sake.” 

“The real monsters wear suits,” Enjolras said darkly. 

Grantaire laughed, maybe a little exasperated. “You’re deliberately avoiding the point,” he said. “Look, I know for a fact that even Bahorel won’t sleep with his arms or legs hanging over the edge of the bed.” 

“What?” Enjolras wrinkled his nose and turned his back on Grantaire to keep vacuuming, the cord losing its slack the further away he went. “Why not?” 

“What the hell do you mean ‘why not’?” Grantaire spluttered. “Because things under the bed will grab any limb you dangle in front of them like bait, that’s why!” 

This time Enjolras laughed. “Seriously?” He switched off the vacuum and turned to grin at Grantaire, who was smiling reluctantly. 

“Seriously. I don’t do it either, you know.” 

“But there’s nothing under the bed!” 

“Yeah, you know that now, but you don’t have that assurance when you’re five years old, do you?” 

“All you have to do is look.” 

“Some monsters are invisible,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras couldn’t tell if he was entirely serious or not. “Enjolras.” 

Enjolras pulled the vacuum back over to the plug socket and started to wind the cord up. “What?” 

Grantaire came to stand close to him, frowning slightly. “Have you ever been on your own in the dark, in a room or a corridor or something, and felt like someone was behind you? Even though you _knew_ you were alone?” 

Enjolras finished winding the cord around the hooks on the vacuum and stood up slowly. “I guess,” he admitted. “But that’s not scary. It’s…it’s what you said – it’s unsettling.” 

“Right, now you’re older and wiser and know for sure there’s nothing behind you,” Grantaire nodded, “but what about when you’re a kid? And you know there’s no way there can be anyone or anything else in the room with you, but you’re just as convinced that the tooth fairy collects your teeth when they drop out? And Santa can deliver presents to millions of children in one night?” He paused for a second, presumably for effect. “Suddenly it’s not so impossible, is it? There _might_ be something else in the room with you, because ghosts don’t have to make a noise to announce themselves, and shadow monsters can appear from nowhere like _that_.” He snapped his fingers and gave Enjolras an intense look. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve never been lying in bed, in the dark, and something’s suddenly caught your eye in the gloom, and you’ve been absolutely paralysed with fear? Too scared to move or even breathe because everyone knows that drawing attention to yourself will only end up with you being eaten alive.” 

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “That’s a bit dramatic.” 

“That’s the whole point!” Grantaire insisted. “Monsters don’t _do_ subtle, and neither do people – when they’re scared, I mean.” 

“People create monsters to reflect the worst parts of themselves.” Enjolras started wheeling the vacuum over to the bar and Grantaire followed, as Enjolras had known he would. 

“Human monsters are different,” Grantaire said firmly. “I’m talking about irrational, unexplainable fear. Primal fear – the sort of thing that makes you turn a light on before you go into a room even though you know the layout blindfolded. Stuff that makes you take precautions against things that don’t actually exist. Superstitious crap you _know_ is bullshit but do anyway just in case.” 

“What’s the difference?” Enjolras bent down to plug the vacuum in again and started cleaning. Grantaire went ahead of him to wipe down the tables and put the chairs on top of them, out of the way. 

“Human monsters become part of the everyday,” Grantaire said flatly. “Bullies you avoid at school. Abusive parents you hide from at home. They’re just as monstrous, but it’s a different sort of fear.” 

It was on the tip of Enjolras’ tongue to ask how Grantaire knew, but he sensed that a question like that would be crossing a line far more important than the ones they’d drawn around subjects like foreign affairs, politics, and anything covered at Les Amis meetings. So instead he asked, “More or less primal?” 

Grantaire frowned. “More, I think. The sort of fear that makes monkeys run away from panthers in the jungle, y’know? Like when dogs and cats know an earthquake is coming. Also, the damage humans can inflict on each other is limited, if you get what I mean.” 

“What about the psychological effects of abuse?” Enjolras passed close to Grantaire to vacuum under the table he was stacking chairs on. 

“Ignoring the long-term effects on people’s minds, then. I mean, another person can’t subvert the basic laws of reality. And there are limits to what they can get away with.” 

“Not always.” 

“Another person can’t literally rip your spine out through your mouth, is what I’m getting at. A monster under your bed could.” 

Enjolras frowned. “That’s just ridiculous. If that sort of thing actually happened, you’d hear about it.” 

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re trying to apply _logic_ to this.” Grantaire sighed and went onto the next table, spraying the surface and wiping the cloth across it briskly. “The whole point of fear like that is that it’s not logical. I _know_ there’s no one else there when I’m in the studio at five in the morning. I’d hear them coming up the stairs, and I’d hear the door opening. That doesn’t stop me literally losing my shit if a paintbrush falls off a table or something like that. It’s like…” He stood up straight and gestured aimlessly. “The body anticipates an attack. Heart rate rises, you start looking around really fast, you try and listen really hard. Your mind knows it’s bullshit, logically speaking, but then there’s always that little voice that reminds you that the body is sometimes smarter than the brain. Like involuntary responses to certain stimuli, like jerking your hand away from a flame. The brain doesn’t need to be involved in things like that because the body knows what’s best in that situation, and what if the same’s true in that moment?” 

“When you’re alone in the studio at five in the morning, you mean?” Enjolras asked, unable to keep the note of scepticism from his voice. 

Grantaire dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Yes. The monkey brain protects the logical brain in some situations, doesn’t it? When people are in seriously threatening situations, instinct takes over sometimes to ensure their survival. Why shouldn’t the same be true of threats that might not be entirely real or logical? I’ve had to actually leave the studio at stupid times of the morning because I got too freaked out being in there on my own.” 

“Really?” Enjolras actually stared at him. Grantaire didn’t seem like the sort of person who scared easily. 

Grantaire shrugged, unashamed. “Only a couple of times, but I couldn’t physically bring myself to stay – I was too on edge. Far too on edge to work. And like, that primal fear of monsters gets translated into slightly more rational fear of things like murderers when you’re older. No way was I going to stick around when a psycho might pop up behind me and stab me in the kidneys.” 

“Even though if there was someone else in there with you, you would’ve heard them come in?” Enjolras raised an eyebrow. 

Grantaire gave him an unimpressed look. “Have you not been listening? Logic flies out of the fucking window when you get properly scared like that.” 

“Like when there’s an accident and people try to get in to save their loved ones, even though it’s obvious that it’s hopeless,” Enjolras said thoughtfully. 

“Wow, Apollo.” Grantaire flipped his cloth over his shoulder. “That’s fucking bleak. True though.” 

“There should be more words for different types of fear,” Enjolras decided, switching off the vacuum and tugging at the collar of his shirt. It was entirely too hot in here. “And stop calling me that.” 

“Make me,” Grantaire retorted. “Jehan’s always going on about the limitations of language.” 

“He’s right,” Enjolras shrugged helplessly, dragging the vacuum back to the wall. “We’re restricted by the words we have.” 

Grantaire put his hand to his chest and adopted a lofty voice. “I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything anymore, teach me others, or let me be silent.” At Enjolras’ quizzical look, he smiled slightly and bowed a little at the waist. “Or perhaps you’d prefer something a little less obscure? You taught me language, and my profit on’t is, I know how to curse! The red plague rid you for learning me your language!” He paused, and grinned. “No? Jehan would be so disappointed. So would Combeferre, actually – he likes a bit of Shakespeare.” 

“That was Shakespeare?” 

Grantaire gasped, pretending to be hurt. “Are you insulting my rendition?” 

Enjolras smiled despite himself. “Not at all. Though I have nothing to compare it to, since I don’t know what it’s from.” 

“And you call yourself well-read,” Grantaire snorted and turned away, going behind the bar to wash out his cloth. “For your information, that was Caliban from _The Tempest_. Do you know the story?” 

Enjolras hissed through his teeth. “Something about a storm?” 

“Jesus wept.” Grantaire shook his head mournfully. “It’s set on an island. A banished magician lives there with his daughter, but when they arrived the island was already inhabited by this guy called Caliban. Prospero – the magician – teaches him his language, but then makes him his slave. Caliban’s not exactly thrilled with this change in his fortunes, as you would imagine.” 

Enjolras nodded, still digesting the fact that Grantaire could quote Shakespeare off the top of his head. “What about the first one?” 

“I forgive you for not recognising that. That was Clov from _Endgame_ by Samuel Beckett – one of the immigrants who fell in love with Paris in the thirties and basically never left. Loved it here so much he wrote his plays in French and then translated them back into English.” 

“Where was he from?” 

“Ireland, like James Joyce.” 

Joyce he’d heard of. Enjolras nodded and went over to sit at the bar, giving his feet a rest before he started mopping. “What sort of name is Clov?” 

Grantaire grinned at him and leaned on the counter separating them. “The other main character’s name is Hamm. There’re Hamm’s parents too, but I can’t remember their names. They live in dustbins. It’s a bit of a weird play,” he explained, obviously seeing Enjolras’ bemusement. “But it’s a bit similar to the relationship between Prospero and Caliban in _The Tempest_. Intentionally, I’m pretty sure. Hamm is Clov’s master, and he taught him how to speak and stuff so Clov could serve him, as Prospero did Caliban.” 

Enjolras tilted his head, taking in Grantaire’s relaxed smile and unbuttoned collar, his loose curls and bright eyes. “How do you know all this stuff?” 

Grantaire shrugged, one-shouldered. “I just pick it up here and there. It’s interesting. Éponine was studying Beckett last year, so I got a dose of that from her, and I think I read _The Tempest_ in high school. Can’t remember why. Actually, there probably wasn’t a real reason – it had a nice cover, I expect, so I played the magpie and picked it up to decorate the nest of my head with the contents.” His smile was crooked, and Enjolras returned it, strangely thrilled. 

“You do that often?” 

“What, furnish the interior of my skull with random shit?” Grantaire stood up and laughed. “You have no idea how much time I’ve spent on Wikipedia. I’ve lost literally entire nights on that website.” 

“That can’t be good for you.” 

“Probably not, but I bet no one else you know can tell you how awesome Julie D’Aubigny was, or about the history of the carrot.” 

Enjolras blinked at him. “Are those two even vaguely related?” 

“Not in the slightest. But that’s the beauty of Wikipedia – spend a few hours on it, and what you end up reading about rarely has anything to do with what you started on. It’s _great_ for killing time. Speaking of, shouldn’t you be mopping right now, Cinderella?” 

Enjolras sighed. “Are you done already?” 

“I’ll draw for a bit, yeah. Mind if I put some music on?” 

Enjolras shook his head and got to his feet again, turning away. As he filled up the bucket in the kitchen, weird discordant notes filled the air, replaced after a short intro with guitar and a man’s voice. When Enjolras went over to the barrier to start mopping, he heard Grantaire singing along under his breath, his own diction better than the original singer’s. 

“Hey good-looking boys, gather around, the sidewalk papers gutter-press you down,” he sang softly, sitting on the bar with his feet on one of the stools, sketchpad balanced on his knees and pen held loosely in his hand. “All those lies can be so unkind, they can make you feel like you’re losing your mind.” 

Enjolras used both hands on the mop, or he would have rubbed at his chest where it was feeling a little tight for no discernable reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned - [Blurred Lines](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyDUC1LUXSU) by Robin Thicke (aka, the damn 'hey hey hey' song, and I share Enjolras' dislike of it. However, I think he'd like [the amazing genderswapped version by Mod Carousel](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tKfwCjgiodg), which I'll just casually recommend), [Werewolves Of London](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iDpYBT0XyvA) by Warren Zevon, [Don't Stop Believin' (Glee cover)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5WxPyUzWSPADon't) by Journey, [Under Pressure](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a01QQZyl-_IUnder) and [Don't Stop Me Now](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgzGwKwLmgMDon't) by Queen, and [Street Life](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=arct2SuLcZsStreet) by Roxy Music, the lyrics for which provide the title for this fic.
> 
>  _Dionysus may yet be Carnus or Iapyx – the odds appear to be in his favour:_ I imagine Grantaire and Jehan have come to the shared conclusion that if Enjolras is Apollo, Grantaire is Dionysus, the Greek god of wine and ecstasy. Carnus and Iapyx are two of Apollo's male lovers.


	2. Antistrophe: Grantaire

“But it’s _good_ that you’re talking to him, isn’t it?” Marius asked helplessly. Grantaire was vaguely aware of Marius’ hand clutching his upper arm, making sure he stayed on his barstool. 

Really, he was fine. He’d had more drinks than he could actually _count_ by this point, but he was fine. Everyone knew how well he held his alcolol. Alolocol. Booze. 

“I’m mentally slurring,” Grantaire muttered. “What the fuck is with that?” 

Marius gripped his arm a little tighter. “Maybe you should stop.” 

“Nope.” Grantaire lifted his hand and signalled for another beer. 

“At least slow down!” 

“Not hap’ning.” 

“You want another shot with that?” the bartender asked. She had blonde hair like Enjolras, and Grantaire sighed heavily. 

“Why not. Hit me.” 

He didn’t miss the look she exchanged with Marius over his head, but since the shot was dutifully plopped on the bar along with his beer, he decided to ignore it. 

Marius sighed and took a gulp of his own drink. “What’s so bad about talking to him more?” he asked. “I thought that was a good thing. You said he was being nice!” 

“He is!” Grantaire moaned. “That’s the fucking problem!” 

Marius leaned closer, sliding his hand around Grantaire’s shoulders. He'd always been a touchy drinker, but Grantaire didn’t mind. “Explain.” 

Grantaire heaved another sigh and knocked the shot back. It burned on the way down, and he chased it with a gulp of beer. “He doesn’t act like he hates me when we’re at work,” he said quietly. 

Marius squeezed his shoulders. “Go on.” 

“He’s…fuck, Marius, he’s…he laughs. He laughs _with_ me, y’know? Like I’m actually funny.” 

“You are funny.” 

“I’m a sarcastic asshole,” Grantaire corrected. “He’s perfect. Except…” he waved a hand, struggling for a moment to put his finger on the right words. “Except he’s not, he’s…he’s not all…all shiny. D’you know what I mean?” 

Marius nodded slowly. “He’s got flaws. And he’s letting you see them.” 

“I…” Enjolras always controlled himself so well, any imperfections he did reveal were revealed on purpose, Grantaire realised. “Yes. Yeah, he’s letting me see. He’s letting me…letting me –” 

“In,” Marius finished. “He’s letting you in, letting you get close.” 

“Right!” Grantaire knocked the sides of their heads together gently. “Ezactly. He’s human, and that’s actually worse.” 

“Worse than…” Marius frowned for a moment. “Wait, worse than you thinking he was what? A supernatural entity?” 

“Don’t be stupid.” Grantaire gulped his beer and set it down on the bar with a clink, watching the bubbles streaming to the surface in thin winding ribbons. “I’m human – I’m people – and what do people worship?” 

“Gods?” 

“Ezactly.” 

“Apollo,” Marius realised, nodding. “Right. Gotcha.” 

“But gods are untouchable,” Grantaire murmured, leaning his chin in one hand and gazing at his drink. “They burn mortals; they can’t be had. You can…you can admire them from afar, an’ you can fear them an’ get really fucked up by them, but you can’t…you know, you can’t be on the same level. Not when they’re so…” 

“Shiny?” Marius supplied. 

Grantaire turned to stare at him and nodded emphatically. “Ex _actly_. And now…fuck, Marius, Apollo’s come down from Olympus and he’s not so shiny down here among the mortals, so maybe he _is_ a mortal and I just didn’t see it before or something, but that’s…fuck, that’s the _worst_ thing in the whole fucking world.” He reached out and snagged his glass, draining the contents in a fit of despondence and slamming it down on the bar. “I need more.” 

“You really don’t,” Marius said firmly, grabbing Grantaire’s wrist so he couldn’t ask for another. “Besides, explain how Apollo – for fuck’s sake, _Enjolras_ I mean – being human and therefore _attainable_ is a bad thing?” 

“Because he’s fucking attainable!” Grantaire wailed, turning his hand to grip Marius’ skinny wrist in return, squeezing tight in an effort to translate his dilemma. “Don’t you get it? There’s…I mean, I’m…Jehan said Dionysus might have a chance at being Carnus or Iapyx! A _chance_ , Marius! He thinks I have a shot!” 

Marius huffed. “Again, how is that a _bad_ thing?” 

Grantaire’s throat tightened, and he groaned, dropping his head against Marius’ shoulder. “It didn’t _matter_ before,” he muttered. “I couldn’t get burned. I mean, not really, not by anything essept whatever the real-life equivalent of holy fire is. But if he’s human and real and touchable an’…an’ fucking _touchable_ , I can fuck up so much worse! He talks about normal shit with me! He knows what sort of stuff I like an’ don’t like, an’ he laughs at my jokes, an’ if I fuck it up now I’ll fucking _die_ , Marius!” 

“Is he alright?” The voice of the bartender floated overhead, concerned. 

“Not really,” Marius told her. “I’m taking him home now.” 

“I’m so _fucked_ ,” Grantaire moaned into Marius’ shoulder, horrifyingly close to tears. 

“Do you want me to call a taxi?” 

“Nah, we only live round the corner,” Marius assured her. 

“Sure he’s alright?” 

“Yeah. He’s in love, that’s all.” 

“Oh.” 

With some effort, Grantaire lifted his head and gazed balefully at the bartender. “I’m in love with a god who may be mortal after all, and it’s actually tearing me into tiny agonised little pieces. Did I pay my tab yet?” 

“I gave her your card.” Marius patted his shoulder and Grantaire nodded. 

“Cool. At least I’m getting paid while I endure this nightmare.” 

Marius kept his arm around him as they walked back, and Grantaire leaned into him and closed his eyes for most of it, trusting Marius not to lead him into danger. “I hate my life.” 

“But you don’t hate Enjolras.” 

“It’s impossible to hate Enjolras. He’s imperfect an’…an’ he’s perfect _because_ he’s imperfect. He might be more…more Eleuther than Apollo, so where does that leave me? I thought I was doin’ okay, y’know? I thought…it’s okay to worship marble. It can’t actually hurt you back. I mean, not _properly_.” 

Marius propped him against the door while he let them into the building, and Grantaire made a valiant effort to get his feet working properly for the stairs, because Marius might be tall, but he was skinny, not strong, and Grantaire was under no impression that he was light. If he fell on Marius, they were both going down. 

“I get what you mean,” Marius sighed as they stumbled into their tiny apartment. Grantaire kept up the momentum until he flopped face-first onto their mattress (bought cheap in lieu of an actual sofa, because why not?). 

“Do you?” he mumbled into the material. 

“Sure.” Marius kicked the door shut and sat down next to him, lying on his back. “Look at Cosette. She’s…I mean, she’s…” 

“Beyond the descriptive power of mere mortal words.” Grantaire turned his head to speak properly, and Marius made a sound of agreement. 

“I mean,” he said, a little sad, “just look at her. _I’m_ the one who lucked out here, and I know everyone looking at us knows it. She could have anyone she wants. She could drop me in a heartbeat, and no one would blink an eye. She’s…I love her so much, R. I’d do anything for her.” 

Grantaire made a sad noise and opened an eye to look for Marius’ hand. He fumbled for it and gripped tight, glad when Marius squeezed it back. “You’re great though,” he said. “You actually have things goin’ for you. Like, y’know, you’re really smart, and you’re funny, and you’re really nice – and girls _do_ like nice guys, I don’t care about all that ‘nice guys finish last’ crap, b’cause tha’s absolute bullshit. You’re a fucking catch, Marius.” A grin spread across his face. “An’ I’ll fucking punch anyone who says different. An’ you know Cosette would too. She loves you.” 

Marius turned his head to face him and smiled. “Yeah?” 

“She’s going out with you, isn’t she?” Grantaire squeezed his hand. “She doesn’t do lying, y’know that.” 

They were both quiet for a moment, then Marius said quietly, “You’re a catch too, you know.” 

Grantaire snorted. “Very funny.” 

“You are,” Marius insisted. “ _You’re_ smart and funny and nice.” 

“I’m a sarcastic dick who spends too much time on Wikipedia,” Grantaire said darkly. “Wikipedia isn’ smart – iss unreliably informed.” 

“Enjolras likes you,” Marius said. 

Grantaire turned his face back into the mattress and shook his head. 

“He does.” Marius rolled over and put his free hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “He likes you. He’s nice to you at work – he doesn’t bother being nice to people he doesn’t think are worth his time.” 

“He’s polite,” Grantaire mumbled. 

“He knows you too well to be polite now,” Marius said reasonably. “He likes you. You like him. What’s so bad about that?” 

Grantaire swallowed furiously and shook his head. When Marius just squeezed his hand and moved the hand on his shoulder up to the back of his head, Grantaire sucked in a shuddering breath and turned his head enough to speak clearly, though he still kept his eyes closed. “It was okay before. I couldn’t…I admired him like a forest fire, y’know? Now he’s all human and _close_ and he has opinions about Harry Potter and he keeps trying to get me to read _War and Peace_ and he fucking lies to try and get me to take his dumb bets even though he knows I can see right through it, and…and…” 

“R?” Marius’ voice was soft with concern, and Grantaire screwed his eyes tighter shut and curled up a bit, unable to stop his voice breaking. 

“And he told me he likes my voice, and he let me rant about how fucking expensive gouache paint is and he told me his family cut him off, and he’s –” He sobbed, actually fucking sobbed, and clutched Marius’ hand like it was a lifeline. “He’s so fucking normal and human sometimes I forget how…how much…how shiny he is, and I…I…” 

Marius’ hand carded through his hair and he whispered, “It’s okay,” and Grantaire curled into him and gave up completely on trying not to cry. 

“I don’t think he hates me anymore,” Grantaire breathed, like he was revealing a secret. 

Marius kept stroking his hair. “I don’t think he ever hated you.” 

“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” Grantaire cried. “If he doesn’ hate me, what…does he like me? Jehan said…said I might be Carnus or…Iapyx, an’ _he_ knows Enjolras, so I don’ know _what_ to think anymore.” There were tears on his face, soaking into the mattress, and his throat ached from trying to cry as quietly as possible. “I want to show him,” he admitted in a tiny voice between shuddering breaths, “I want him to…to see my stuff. Some of the paintings…what I’ve done, it’s…” 

“It’s beautiful,” Marius said quietly when he trailed off. “I think he’d love it.” 

“I can’t though,” Grantaire’s free hand clenched in his own hair, his knuckles brushing the edge of Marius’ fingers. “He’d _know_. I’m scared, Marius, I’m so fucking scared.” 

Marius sighed and let go of Grantaire’s hand to pull him into an awkward sideways hug. “I know. It’s a risk.” 

Grantaire clutched Marius’ shirt and his own hair (Enjolras said he needed to cut it, it was too long, and he’d said the same back, but if Enjolras cut his hair it’d be a tragedy and Grantaire’s own wasn’t worth shit). He cried until he fell asleep, and Marius extracted himself only to switch out the light and locate the nearest blanket before he fell back down on the mattress and dragged it over the two of them, it not being a new experience for either of them to fall asleep in the living room together. 

Grantaire woke with fuzzy memories, salty eyes, and a hangover. Marius had left already for a lecture or something, but there was a note on the fridge – _Dare to love. Nothing is ever achieved without risk_. Grantaire tore the page from the magnetised pad and stared at it for a moment before folding it in half and putting it in his pocket. It never hurt to have a reminder, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eleuther is a mortal son of Apollo, who incidentally erected the first statue of Dionysus.


	3. Epode: Enjolras

“You mind walking back on your own today?” Grantaire asked, looking at Enjolras sheepishly as they left American Bowl. “I kinda have to log some hours in at the studio.” 

“Sure, that’s fine,” Enjolras said, glancing sideways at Grantaire and only hesitating for a moment before he asked, “Can I come?” At Grantaire’s raised eyebrows, he elaborated, flushing slightly. “I mean, to the studio. I’ve never been in there before.” 

“I’m probably gonna be in there all night.” 

It wasn’t a no. Enjolras smiled. “I won’t stay. I just want to see.” 

Grantaire frowned. “Why?” 

They walked slowly to the end of the road, streetlights casting puddles of yellow on the pavement. “I know you don’t like people seeing what you’re working on,” Enjolras looked down, “but Jehan said he’d been to your studio, so I figured that was okay.” He chanced a glance at Grantaire, who to his relief looked confused, but not displeased. 

“Why’re you interested?” he asked curiously. 

Enjolras shrugged and turned his eyes forward. “It’s interesting. You’re interesting.” 

Grantaire laughed. “I’m not interesting.” 

“I think you are.” 

There was a moment of silence, then Grantaire nudged his shoulder with his own, and Enjolras turned to see him grin. “Thanks, Apollo.” 

He scowled, knowing that was what Grantaire expected. “That’s not my name.” 

“Alright, Ting Ting.” 

“What?” Enjolras stared at him in bafflement. Grantaire laughed. 

“They’re a band. Did this song called ‘That’s Not My Name’.” 

“Oh.” Enjolras rolled his eyes and dared to nudge Grantaire back. “Very funny.” 

“I’m a comic genius.” Grantaire pretended to preen, and Enjolras couldn’t keep back a smile. 

“So I can see your studio then?” 

Grantaire sucked in a breath through his teeth and ran his tongue across his lips. “Okay,” he said eventually. “If you really want.” 

“I do,” Enjolras said truthfully. He caught the edge of Grantaire’s shy, pleased smile and saw the nerves in the lines of his eyes that accompanied it. 

The walk to the art studios took about half an hour, but they filled it with chatter so Enjolras hardly noticed the distance they were covering. His feet were used to the exertion by now, anyway. The light in the foyer was on, but almost every other visible window was dark when they arrived, and Grantaire made a small noise of satisfaction as he pulled his keys out of his pocket. The door couldn’t be opened without the fob, Enjolras saw, and he raised his eyebrows as he followed Grantaire inside. 

“You lot get more security than we do.” 

Grantaire snorted. “Obviously. What’s worth stealing in the academic buildings? Books, some interactive whiteboards?” 

“What’s so special in here?” Enjolras asked, smiling. They started climbing the stairs, and as they rose huge canvases came into view on the walls above them. There was a massive portrait of a young black woman, her face in profile against a background dripping with colour. What Enjolras had taken at first glance to be a strange blocky cityscape turned out at closer inspection to be dozens of smaller canvases on top of each other, each showing the view in a different stage of development. There was a thin glass container displaying a wide-skirted dress in a multitude of colours, and a blown-up photograph of a man screaming, shot from below his chin. “Wow.” 

“You mean besides the priceless art?” Grantaire asked sarcastically, amused. “Well for starters, do you have any idea how much decent art equipment costs? I don’t just mean paint – I’m talking about kilns and ovens for sculptors, materials for the textiles students, computer software, easels, frames, chemicals…I could go on.” 

“I bet you could,” Enjolras murmured, craning his head to try and look at everything at once as they reached the top of the stairs and started walking down the corridor to the right. 

“I’m right at the end, but you can get out fine on your own – you only need the fobs to open the doors from one side.” 

Enjolras grabbed his arm suddenly, attention splintering between the sensation of Grantaire’s shirt against his palm and the gargantuan canvas on the wall in front of him. “Jehan,” he managed to say. Grantaire stopped next to him and nodded. 

“Yeah, he modelled for this one last year.” 

It was the flower one Jehan had told him about. Jehan’s head and shoulders were the focus of the picture, rendered in almost photographic detail. His chin was tilted, eyes upcast, the slightest hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. But it was wistful, not entirely happy. His face was cast in light from the upper right corner, the shadows dark on his throat and behind his ear. And the background…the entire background was made of flowers. Too many different kinds and colours for Enjolras to count, though suggestions of a pattern made themselves visible the longer he looked – pale, bright flowers up in the top right where the light seemed to be coming from; swirls of vibrant crimsons and violets and oranges behind Jehan’s head and around his shoulders. But near the bottom the flowers were less colourful, more damaged. Bruised, torn petals, stained and dying. The effect was breath-taking. The thought of the amount of _work_ Grantaire must have put into it was dizzying. 

“You okay?” Grantaire asked. Enjolras realised he was still holding his arm, and he let go, palm tingling. 

“Yeah,” he murmured, still staring. “You made this?” 

“Yep. In about a week too, which even I can admit is impressive. I logged most of my hours for last year in the last couple of weeks. Practically never left the studio.” He laughed, but Enjolras didn’t join in. 

“This is incredible,” he said, and Grantaire fell silent. Enjolras couldn’t tear his eyes away from the canvas to check his expression. 

“I cheated a bit,” Grantaire said after a while. “See at the edges of his face there?” He pointed. “The flowers are painted, not pressed. I let them overlap on the other side, but the light source is meant to be up here, so it would’ve looked out of place to have petals over his skin.” 

The painted flowers looked real. It was only when Enjolras took a step forward and peered at the canvas that he saw the difference. He looked behind him at Grantaire, who glanced away quickly, running a hand through his hair. “It’s amazing,” Enjolras told him, not missing the tiny, if slightly bemused smile the praise brought to Grantaire’s lips. 

“Yeah, well,” Grantaire shrugged and inched down the corridor to the studio, forcing Enjolras to follow him and leave the portrait of Jehan behind. “Look around, Apollo. Everything in here’s amazing.” 

“Then it fits right in,” Enjolras said simply. He caught up with Grantaire and squinted. “Are you –?” 

“What?” Grantaire looked down and sorted through his keys. 

 _Blushing_ , Enjolras had been about to ask, but the question was redundant now he was close enough to see that Grantaire’s cheeks and ears were definitely flushed. “Nothing.” 

“Okay then.” Grantaire was definitely avoiding his eyes too, but it wasn’t like Enjolras could point that out. “Don’t expect too much,” he said as he let them in and switched the light on. “My space is always a tip.” 

“I believe that,” Enjolras said, voice dry and eyes wide as he took in the vast space beginning to light up. The area took up about half the floor of the building, he judged, with white partitions dividing it into lots of little sections, several large tables grouped here and there between them. “Wow.” 

“You should’ve seen it when we first moved in,” Grantaire grinned at him and lead the way into the maze. “It was pristine. Everything was white. They have to redo it every time a new generation leaves because the students mess it up so badly.” 

The partitions made little open cubicles, Enjolras saw as they walked. Each one had artwork all over it, sometimes drawn right onto the board. And each cubicle was different – there was one absolutely plastered with postcards, another with post-it notes. Most had several finished pieces on the inside walls, a few had mirrors, many had paint splattered across the little tables slotted inside. A fair few contained things Enjolras guessed would be categorised as sculptures – strange statues made of wire or clay or a strange mix of things. There was one that vaguely resembled a human torso made entirely of plastic coat hangers. 

“Do you know everyone else who works here?” 

“Most, yeah, if only by name and face. I don’t tend to be in at the same time as everyone else though, and when I am it’s usually because I’m late on a deadline and I’m working too hard to chat. This is me.” 

Enjolras turned and nodded. “I would’ve guessed that.” 

Grantaire grinned at the massive, stylised ‘R’ painted on the outside of the partition. “What gave it away?” 

Enjolras snorted and came closer to look inside. He’d expected it to be messy, but it looked like a bomb had gone off. A grenade containing paint, art equipment, paper, and possibly parts of Grantaire’s bedroom. “It looks like you live here.” Enjolras stepped inside and took in the bottles and cans crowded under the desk, the jacket hanging over the back of the stool, and the various items scattered across the desk (surface not actually visible under the thick layers of junk and paper) – deodorant, a Terry Pratchett book, an empty pizza box – “Is that a _toothbrush?_ ” 

Grantaire slipped in next to him. “I keep odd hours, remember? Gotta be comfortable.” 

There weren’t any finished pieces on the inside walls. Instead, a mixture of things – photographs of their friends; articles ripped from newspapers and magazines; a beautiful paper fan Enjolras recognised as one of Feuilly’s. There was a ratty braided bracelet tacked to a picture of Versailles, and lots of cut-outs of other artists’ work. Enjolras recognised a few, but most were alien to him. In the space between, there were notes scrawled directly onto the boards, growing thicker around the desk. 

 _NEED ACRYLICS GO TO SHOP_ was written in black marker over a photograph of Cosette and Éponine with their arms around each other, pulling faces at the camera. _Bottles – glass/plastic/ceramic?_ was squeezed between an article on the opening of a new exhibition in the Louvre and a picture of an oil painting hung on a cream-coloured wall. _Consider sheet music_ in red near the edge of the desk. _Tutorial Wednesday 3:15 DON’T BE FUCKING LATE OR DRUNK!!!_ was underlined three times under a post-it note covered in random numbers. 

Stacked against one wall were two thick plastic folders and several large sketchbooks, one of them tied up with orange yarn. “Your finished work?” 

“Yeah, some of it,” Grantaire pulled a face. “The rest’s at mine. Can’t afford to put it in storage, and Marius won’t let me throw it out.”

“Why would you throw it out?” Enjolras asked, shocked. If it was all of the same calibre as the portrait of Jehan he couldn’t imagine why Grantaire would want to get rid of it. 

Grantaire shrugged and leaned forward to start sorting the mess on his desk into untidy piles. “I don’t like a lot of it. And you’ve got to remember – we come here to get better, so the stuff we churn out at the beginning is real shit.” 

“You must’ve been good enough to get in,” Enjolras pointed out. Grantaire wrinkled his nose and shrugged again. 

“I’m weirdly lucky in that regard. Also, I wanted to piss off my parents.” 

“They didn’t want you to be an artist?” 

Grantaire grinned. “Still don’t. But I’m doing this whether they like it or not, which is enough most of the time.” 

Enjolras smiled slightly. “I can definitely understand that.” 

There was a moment of quiet when either of them might have asked the other to elaborate, but it passed and Grantaire shoved a pile of papers to one side to clear a space on his desk to dump his current sketchbook in. “Well, I’m gonna be here for a good few hours,” he said, not looking at Enjolras, and Enjolras nodded, taking the hint and backing off. 

“I’ll see you later then.” 

“Yeah.” Grantaire shot him a small smile, a proper smile – not the wry smirk he usually wore. “Later.” 

On his way out, Enjolras paused in front of the portrait of Jehan again, standing right back against the opposite wall to take it all in at once and then moving closer to study it in detail. It must have taken them hours to find so many perfect blooms. Days more to press them properly and another week for Grantaire to take the raw materials and the vision in his head and translate it into this masterpiece. It was the work of a moment to pull his phone out and take a few quick photographs. Something to remember in case Grantaire didn’t permit another visit. 

Jehan was still up when he got back, lounging on the sofa with a book while Courfeyrac watched some reality TV show. They both looked round when Enjolras came in, and Courfeyrac heaved an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Finally. You’ve been gone ages – did you and Grantaire built a barricade out of bowling balls?” 

“Ha ha.” Enjolras went over and flopped into one of the chairs, only realising as he did how tired he was. “No, we went to the art studios. I saw that portrait he did of you,” he told Jehan, who beamed. 

“It’s _gorgeous_ , isn’t it? I couldn’t believe it when I saw!” 

“Is that the one with all the flowers?” Courfeyrac asked, because apparently Enjolras had been the only one unaware of Grantaire’s creative exploits. 

“Yes,” he supplied, trying not to sound grouchy. It was his own fault he hadn’t known, after all. 

“Why did you go to the studios?” Jehan asked. 

“I was curious,” Enjolras admitted. “I hadn’t actually seen any of his art before, since he won’t let me look at whatever he does in his sketchbook when he’s finished cleaning.” 

“He doesn’t let anyone look at his in-progress stuff, I told you.” Jehan sat up properly and exchanged a grin with Courfeyrac. “Why so curious?” 

Enjolras shrugged awkwardly and got up to avoid their eyes. “I don’t know that much about him, that’s all.” 

They both twisted on the sofa to keep watching him as he went to his bedroom. “You didn’t care before,” Courfeyrac smirked. 

Enjolras hesitated with his hand on the door and couldn’t bring himself to look over at them. “I didn’t know him before,” he said finally, and tried to ignore their laughter as he closed the door behind him. 

 

“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Grantaire declared fifteen minutes into their Saturday cleaning session. “Are you okay?” 

Enjolras frowned at the vacuum cleaner and fought the instinct to shake his head and tell Grantaire that everything was fine. But Grantaire had noticed, and Enjolras found to his surprise that a part of him wanted to tell him. It wouldn’t help, of course, and there was nothing Grantaire could do, but Combeferre had always told him that he had a tendency to bottle things up, and it was poisonous to let them fester. 

So, “My uncle emailed me,” he said after a long pause. “It’s the first contact I’ve had with my family since they cut me off.” 

“Shit,” Grantaire looked over at him, but kept wiping down the surface of the tables by the bowling lanes. “Why’d he email you?” 

Enjolras swallowed and kept his eyes studiously fixed on the carpet of the foyer. “Mostly to tell me what a shitty son I was being.” 

“Charming.” 

Grantaire’s blunt disdain was…strange. Enjolras wanted to agree, but there was still a part that snapped against anyone apart from him speaking against his family. He wasn’t sure how to react. “Yeah,” he said eventually. “It wasn’t…nice.” 

Grantaire didn’t say anything, and when Enjolras looked up he saw that he was frowning at him in concern. “You want to talk about it?” 

Enjolras bit his tongue, the pain doing nothing to clear his head. He finished vacuuming the foyer carpet quickly and switched the vacuum off. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. 

“Did you reply?” Grantaire asked, wiping down the last table and coming to sit on the one closest to Enjolras. 

“No.” Enjolras shook his head. “Not yet, anyway. I didn’t know what to say.” 

“Unusual for you,” Grantaire remarked, lips twitching. 

Enjolras tried to smile in return, but gave up. “It’s harder to defend myself against personal attacks,” he said. “And my family, well…they’re about as personal as it gets.” 

Grantaire opened his mouth, hesitated, then asked, “You mind if I ask what he said?” 

Enjolras shook his head and impulsively got his phone out, unlocking it and flicking through to his received emails. “Here,” he said, holding it out. “This is easier.” He couldn’t bring himself to read it out or summarise it. Hearing it out loud would be too uncomfortable. Grantaire’s fingers brushed the tips of his as he took the phone, and Enjolras turned away quickly, taking the vacuum cleaner over to the cupboard and getting the mop and bucket out. 

He remembered as he was filling the bucket up that he hadn’t told Grantaire about coming out to his family, but it was too late to stop him reading now. And really, he minded that bit least of all. Grantaire wouldn’t care. None of his friends cared about it either. It was one of the many reasons why he preferred them to his blood relations. 

By the time the bucket was full, Grantaire was leaning against the wall around the corner, phone in hand, obviously finished. Enjolras put the bucket down to take it back and Grantaire spoke. “Hey.” When Enjolras looked, Grantaire had a serious expression on his face. “Your family are assholes.” He said evenly. “And you’re worth more than all of them put together.” 

Enjolras stared at him, his chest strangely tight. “Thank you.” 

Grantaire looked away, shoulders lifting as he inhaled. “Better get mopping,” he said after a moment, catching Enjolras’ eye with one of his usual crooked smiles. “These floors won’t clean themselves.” 

They didn’t speak much while Enjolras finished up, music playing softly through the speakers, quiet enough for Enjolras to hear Grantaire singing along, sketchbook on the bar for once instead of balanced on his lap. He was using paints instead of pens – a shallow red tin of watercolours and a glass of water near his hand. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever speak to them properly again,” Enjolras told Grantaire on their way back, walking side-by-side in the dark. He looked ahead while he spoke and tried to sound flippant but only ended up sounding small. 

“Yeah, but think how much you’ll save on presents,” Grantaire smirked. He sighed a second later. “The real question is – do you _mind_ not ever speaking to them again?” 

They paused at a road as a couple of cars rumbled past. “I don’t know,” Enjolras said. “I mean…I feel like I shouldn’t, because they’re…well, assholes, like you said. They’re intolerant and selfish and their political views make me want to scream, but…” 

“But they’re still your family,” Grantaire finished as they crossed and kept walking. “I get that.” 

Enjolras looked at him. “Yeah?” 

Grantaire waved a hand in the air. “My dad hates me because I’m shit with numbers and science and that’s all that matters to him – he thinks art and music are soft subjects, not worth the time. My mum doesn’t think I’ll ever get anywhere in life for basically the same reasons. My stepfather thinks I’m a bad influence on Claire – she’s my half-sister, seven years old. They’re all pretty shit and I hate them a lot of the time, not counting Claire, but I’d still like them to actually…fuck, I don’t know. Be…” 

“Proud of you.” 

“Yeah. I guess.” 

They were both quiet for a few long minutes. Just as the crossroads where Grantaire would split off came into view, he turned to Enjolras and shrugged. “It’s all shit, but at least you’ll make them eat their words. In the meantime, fuck them.” 

“What about you?” Enjolras asked. “Won’t you make your family eat their words?” 

Grantaire smiled wryly. “I doubt it. You can’t spit in this city without hitting an aspiring artist. Even if you’re a genius there’s no guarantee of success, or even of scraping a living – I’m probably wasting my time and my money, but at least I’ll have a qualification at the end of it, even if it is useless. I’ll see you later, Apollo.” He changed direction and lifted a hand before Enjolras could dispute his words. 

“Stop calling me that!” he shouted, unable to say what he really wanted to with so little time to respond. 

Grantaire laughed and spun around on one toe. “What’s in a name?” he crowed. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet!” He turned to face Enjolras and bowed deeply, body a silhouette against the light of the streetlamp behind him. Before Enjolras could respond he’d slipped around the corner and out of sight, the strange boy who believed he would fail at everything and quoted theatre and poetry off the top of his head. 

What would happen if he ran after Grantaire? What would Grantaire’s reaction be if Enjolras grabbed him by the shoulders and kissed him? 

“ _Fuck_.” The word slipped out without his permission, and he started to walk back to his apartment quickly, fumbling in his pocket for his phone. Combeferre picked up on the third ring. 

“You okay?” He knew about the email, of course, though none of the others did. Except Grantaire now, Enjolras realised, and felt a swooping sensation in his stomach. 

“Not really.” 

“What happened?” Combeferre’s voice was serious, soothing, and Enjolras calmed down slightly just hearing it. 

“I showed Grantaire the email my uncle sent me.” 

“Oh,” Combeferre sounded surprised. “Okay. What happened?” 

“He told me my family are assholes,” Enjolras said, walking as briskly as he could without breaking into a run. “And I’m worth more than all of them put together.” 

“I agree with him there.” 

“I like him.” 

“Right?” 

“No, I mean…oh for fuck’s sake, I _like_ him.” 

“ _Oh_.” Combeferre cleared his throat, and Enjolras got the feeling that he was smiling. “Is this bad?” 

“I don’t know yet,” Enjolras said after a moment. “But…don’t tell Courfeyrac yet, okay?” 

“It might be too late for that,” Combeferre said slowly, and Enjolras groaned as a familiar laugh came through the phone. 

“I’m so happy for you!” Courfeyrac crooned, and Enjolras scowled. 

“If I get back and you’ve told _anyone_ else, I’ll strangle you in your sleep.” 

Courfeyrac just cackled, but Combeferre said, “Duly noted.” 

“Good,” Enjolras snapped, and hung up. After a moment he pushed a hand through his hair and decided not to mention the fluttering feeling in his chest to anyone, especially not Courfeyrac. He had a lot of thinking to do.

 

“It’s just not my area of expertise,” Enjolras said helplessly. Courfeyrac exchanged a look with Combeferre, and then turned a huge grin on Enjolras. 

“That’s okay. More than okay, because luckily for you, this _is_ my area of expertise. Fantastically so, I might add.” 

Combeferre made a considering face. “Maybe he needs Jehan as well.” 

“I’m not that bad,” Enjolras griped, folding his arms and glaring at them. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were both sitting at the kitchen table, and Combeferre sighed and beckoned for him to sit as well. Enjolras did, somewhat reluctantly. “It’s just…unexpected.” 

“For you, maybe,” Courfeyrac snorted. “I saw this coming a mile off.” 

“How?” Enjolras asked, bemused. 

“Complementary colours,” Courfeyrac answered promptly. “Opposites attract.” 

“Opposites repel,” Enjolras said flatly. “The only reason I can have a civil conversation with him is because we both avoid the topics that set us off.” 

“So you have a few hurdles yet.” Courfeyrac shrugged. “Big deal. The point is, the attraction is there.” Enjolras resisted the urge to squirm in his seat. Courfeyrac looked between them brightly. “It’s nice how we each cover a base here, isn’t it?” 

“What do you mean?” Combeferre sipped at his tea and underlined a sentence in his textbook. 

“Enjolras covers raw fury and inspiration, you do practical details and strategy, and I’m with the people. I’m the people person, bringing everyone together. For your love worries, look no further than Courfeyrac!” 

“ _Love?_ ” Enjolras said in a strangled voice. 

“Matters of the heart then,” Courfeyrac waved a hand, unconcerned. “You know what I mean. So, to summarise – you like Grantaire.” He waited pointedly until Enjolras nodded, his cheeks flushing. 

“Yes.” 

“I’m so happy for you, you have no idea.” Courfeyrac put his hand over his heart and sighed. “But, to business – do you have a plan?” 

Enjolras really hoped he wasn’t as red as he felt. “No?” 

“I don’t think he needs one,” Combeferre said lightly. “So far it’s all developed naturally. Why not let it continue?” 

“I think you underestimate R’s issues,” Courfeyrac snorted. “Also, take it from me; it’s always better to have a plan in mind, even if it’s really rough, just so you aren’t caught by surprise.” 

“What would happen that would catch me by surprise?” Enjolras stared at him, feeling increasingly out of his depth and not comfortable about it in the slightest. 

Courfeyrac shrugged. “What would you do if he suddenly kissed you?” Before Enjolras could form a coherent response, he went on. “I mean, what do you say afterwards? Do you have any idea how to ask him out on a date? What would you do if he asked you on a date? What do you say if someone accuses you of having a crush on him? What happens if zombies attack? These are questions you have to consider.” 

“Perhaps not the last one,” Combeferre smiled slightly. “And I don’t think Grantaire will initiate anything, do you?” 

Enjolras’ stomach curled in on itself. “Why not?” 

“Because he almost certainly doesn’t think you like him that way,” Courfeyrac said, serious for once. “He wouldn’t expect someone like you to go for someone like him.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Enjolras bristled. 

“It means he thinks you’re above him,” Courfeyrac looked him in the eye and held his gaze. “And, to be brutally honest, it’s only recently that you’ve been acting anything resembling human around him, so it’s not really surprising.” 

“You’ve also never shown any romantic interest in anyone,” Combeferre pointed out. “So he has nothing to base any assumptions on. He doesn’t know what your type is, and what sort of person you would be if you were in a relationship. I mean, did he even know you were gay before now?” 

“He knew,” Courfeyrac asserted. “As much as Enjolras made it obvious anyway. I mean, it’s always been pretty clear you’re not interested in women,” he added in Enjolras’ direction. Enjolras gave into the urge to squirm. 

“This is possibly my least favourite conversation I’ve ever had with you two,” he muttered. Courfeyrac grinned and Combeferre patted his arm. 

“What _do_ you want from this conversation then? Advice?” 

“Yes,” Enjolras sighed and ran the nail of his index finger over the pad of his thumb. “What should I do?” 

“You want to be with him?” Courfeyrac checked, and made a pleased sound when Enjolras nodded. “Well, I would say to go with Combeferre’s idea and let it develop organically, but this is Grantaire we’re talking about.” 

“So?” Enjolras frowned. 

“So he may require a more obvious approach,” Combeferre clarified. 

A confession. Enjolras recoiled, and Courfeyrac smiled, suddenly wise as he tapped the back of Enjolras’ hand to get his attention. “It comes down to this,” he said softly. “One of the most gut-wrenchingly terrifying things a person can do is lay themselves on the line in front of another person and open themselves up to rejection. It’s a different kind of bravery to calling someone out on their shit or starting a fight with the police, but it’s just as important. Enjolras…” He licked his lips and then grabbed Enjolras’ hand, squeezing tight. “Look, R is one of my best friends and one of the smartest guys I know, but you’re going to have to literally spell your feelings out for him before he believes there’s even the possibility of you being serious. And you need to decide whether or not you’re for real, and whether or not you can do that, and if not, you need to step away right now. Because if you lead him on and then get scared at the last minute and let him drop, it’ll fucking kill him.” 

He squeezed Enjolras’ hand once more, gave him a small smile, then got up and went to his bedroom without another word. Enjolras sat back in his chair, reeling slightly. “I forget what he’s like when he’s serious.” 

“Because the occasion is so rare?” Combeferre smiled slightly. “He’s very good at cutting to the point when he wants to. He’s right though,” he added. “You need to decide now whether Grantaire’s worth the risk, while there’s still time to back off.” 

“He’s worth the risk,” Enjolras said firmly, not even having to think about it. “He is, but…” 

“But?” Combeferre prompted. 

“But what if I take the risk and he decides I’m not worth it?” Enjolras asked, hating how small his voice sounded. 

Combeferre just smiled. “I seriously doubt he’d do that.” 

“Why?” 

“Because R fell for you the moment he met you.” Combeferre rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “I’m going to bed. Night, Enjolras.” 

“Goodnight,” Enjolras replied automatically. He barely saw Combeferre slip into his bedroom, and sat at the kitchen table for a good five minutes before he went to his own and flopped down on the bed. His mind was racing, but at least one thought was clear – he’d never been the sort of person to shy away from risking everything for what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to change now. 

 

“Buildings are pretty easy actually.” Grantaire threw the cloth at Enjolras, who caught it and ran it under the tap. “They’ve got rules, y’know? It’s the details that can trip you up, but as long as you don’t get too hung up on them, it’s okay. There’s a girl I know – Maria – who does incredible watercolours of buildings. I swear, she must have a photographic memory or something, because she gets the details down perfectly. Her shadows and light are amazing.” 

“Eidetic memory.” Enjolras threw the cloth back. “Isn’t that what it’s called?” 

“Eidetic covers all senses, I think, not just sight.” Grantaire tapped the side of his head and grinned. “She’s not got the memory for sounds.” 

Enjolras smiled, no longer surprised at Grantaire’s odd nuggets of information. “Must be useful.” 

“What, a photographic memory?” 

“Yeah.” 

“For an artist, or in general?” 

“In general.” Enjolras lugged the bucket out to the diner area and plunged the mop into the suds. “I wouldn’t say no.” 

“I think I would,” Grantaire said thoughtfully. 

“Why?” 

“Well, I’m trying to be more abstract for one thing, and I don’t know, maybe having a photographic memory would interfere with that? Also, wouldn’t you get overwhelmed if you remembered everything?” 

“The brain must cope somehow, or everyone with eidetic memory would be in a sensory deprivation chamber,” Enjolras argued. 

Grantaire snickered. “I know – you’d just like to be able to retain facts and figures easier so you can spout them at will.” 

“Memorising the contents of my set reading wouldn’t be too bad either,” Enjolras said dryly. “There’re only so many audio books I can listen to in one day.” 

“I find reading faster anyway,” Grantaire shrugged. 

“It is.” The floor darkened as Enjolras mopped methodically with long, measured strokes. “But I can’t carry books round with me everywhere. And audio books are cheaper to buy.” 

Grantaire nodded. “Good point.” 

“Feuilly’s given me a few he had already.” Enjolras’ eyes followed the movement of Grantaire’s body as he bent over the last table and wiped it down. The idea of drawing the lines of muscle and the shift of shadows in fabric pulled tight over skin suddenly held appeal, and Enjolras looked away as soon as Grantaire straightened. 

“He’s like a sponge.” Grantaire stretched, his spine popping audibly. “I’ve never known anyone soak up information like he does.” 

“You do,” Enjolras said. 

Grantaire snorted and clambered over the barrier into the bar. “I just pick up random crap and spew it out at random when the situation calls for it. He actually teaches himself. It’s not the same.” He went behind the bar and ran his cloth under the tap there. His bag and sketchbook were on the table, and he lifted them up to wipe underneath them. “He’s driven, y’know? I’m just killing time.” 

“He’s driven because he has to fight for everything he gets,” Enjolras frowned, dipping low to mop under the tables. “Nothing’s ever been given to him for free.” 

“Hey, you know him better,” Grantaire said, moving onto the tables in the bar. “Has he ever felt…hell, I don’t know, like he’s a burden or something? Because he’s…” 

“Because he’s an orphan?” Enjolras finished. “He told me people have tried to make him feel like that. Like he should be grateful for being given basic human rights and opportunities at the taxpayer's  _expense_.” He spat the last word, familiar anger thrumming under his skin. 

“People can be real assholes,” Grantaire said darkly, finishing up and sitting on one of the barstools, opening his sketchbook absently to find whatever he was working on that night. 

“They can be brilliant too,” Enjolras said, standing up straight and looking at him. Grantaire smiled and raised an eyebrow when he didn’t look away, turning on the stool to face Enjolras properly. 

“What?” 

Enjolras frowned, looked away, then sighed, frustrated. “Look, I know this goes against that ‘unspoken agreement’ we’ve apparently got for anything we usually argue about, but…” He shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t get it.” 

Grantaire tilted his head, guarded and wary now. “Get what?” 

“You _care_ ,” Enjolras said exasperatedly. “I _know_ you care, so why do you pretend that you don’t?” 

Grantaire twined his fingers together on his knees, hunching over and frowning. “It’s not that simple, Apollo.” 

“My name is not Apollo.” 

“Not always.” Grantaire flicked his eyes up to meet Enjolras’ for a second before he looked down again and sighed heavily. “It’s…it’s easier, alright?” He straightened his back and looked to the side, avoiding Enjolras’ gaze. “It’s easier to pretend you don’t care, so if things do fuck up, you can pretend it didn’t matter in the first place.” 

Enjolras watched the way Grantaire twisted his fingers and ducked his head and couldn’t help the anger that coloured his voice when he spoke. “Just because it’s easy doesn’t mean it’s right.” 

“It’s not that simple,” Grantaire said again, quieter. 

Enjolras stepped forward, leaving the mop leaning against the wall. “It _is_ that simple. It’s _always_ that simple. It’s just a matter of deciding to act. What’s the difference between pretending not to care and really not caring in the eyes of others? It’s cowardice either way if you’re choosing to lie back and ignore what’s happening under your nose when you’re perfectly capable of standing up.” 

Grantaire promptly did stand up, and Enjolras clenched his fists in horror as he remembered exactly why they didn’t mention these subjects. “I’m done,” Grantaire said, walking quickly to the foyer and resolutely avoiding Enjolras’ eyes. “I mean, with the cleaning,” he added hurriedly. “I’ve finished for the night, so…you can finish up the rest, and I should – I need to, um, go. I have, I mean, I’ve got stuff to do, at the studio, so I’ll see you later. Night, Apollo.” The staff exit closed behind him with a thud, and Enjolras stood in the sudden silence for a long moment, fists uncurling as his whole body seemed to become limp. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, then screwed his eyes up and shouted. “ _Fuck!_ ” 

He was such an idiot. How could he have made such a colossal mistake? How the hell had he let himself fuck this up so badly? He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut and his temper down. 

He still had to mop the bowling alleys, but he knew it wouldn’t make much difference if it was left for another couple of days. Faucher probably wouldn’t even notice. And he couldn’t face staying here any longer without Grantaire’s chatter or music or just his _presence_ filling the silence. 

He dumped the water into the sink in the kitchen and put the bucket and mop back in the storage cupboard. Grantaire’s cloth was still at the bar, he remembered, and turned with a sigh. 

Grantaire’s bag and sketchbook were still on the counter, the sketchbook wide open. Enjolras froze in place, then went over in something of a daze. He was just getting the cloth, he told himself. That was all. 

As excuses went, it was pretty pitiful. 

His eyes were riveted to the sketchbook every step of the way, and he closed the distance quickly, a furnace of curiosity burning in his chest as to what the sketchbook’s pages contained. 

It was him. 

He stopped in front of the bar and stared at the pages on display, mind completely blank. The left page was overflowing with sketches in pen; black and red and yellow. Little half-formed illustrations of Enjolras’ face, his eyes, his neck and collarbones. Other, less detailed ones of his whole body, slightly bent with a mop or a vacuum in his hands, face turned away, hair a shock of yellow with curls defined in black. Drawing after drawing of him – looking over his shoulder with face indistinct; a detailed depiction of his smile; the arch of his spine and the back of his neck, shirt loose and crumpled, bunched in the places where it was tucked into his trousers, lines clean and smooth where it had come out. 

And on the opposite page, a painting. Watercolours, Enjolras assumed, going by the soft, blended colours that blended seamlessly into each other. It was a view of the bowling alley from the bar, with Enjolras mopping at the far end, body graceful and curved in the middle of motion. The black trousers and white shirt of his work clothes were starkly monochromatic against the explosion of red and yellow around him, the lanes and walls a vivid backdrop, both blurry and instantly recognisable. The lights made the Enjolras in the painting the central figure, despite his diminutive size in the scene and his lack of facial features – his blonde curls hid his face from view, slightly bent over as he was. The paint didn’t quite reach the bottom of the page, and in the white space there was a scrawled title for the piece – _even gods need to pay the bills when Olympus deserts them_. 

He had goosebumps, Enjolras realised distantly. Was the whole sketchbook like this? 

Only one way to find out. 

He slid the tips of his fingers into the edges of the middle area of the book and took a deep breath before lifting gently, not wanting to damage anything by accident. 

“Oh.” 

The sound slipped out involuntarily as his wide eyes took in the two paintings revealed on the pages he’d opened the book to. Both were of him, both portraits that must have been done from memory or from photographic reference. The one on the right was of him shouting, eyes burning and fixed on something out of sight, righteous anger in every line of his face and every stroke of paint. He knew what the title would be before he even read it, a single word tucked in the top right corner – _Apollo_. 

The other was softer, gentler. A painting of him smiling, eyes on the viewer and sparkling with amusement. He looked relaxed, happy. The title for this one was also a single word, a scribble in black pen, looping letters sloped to one side – _Enjolras_. 

“Oh,” he murmured again, looking between them. Slowly, he turned the pages back to where they had been open before and drank in the rough sketches again, the evidence of Grantaire’s eyes on him even when he hadn’t known it. 

There was a bang behind him, and Enjolras jumped, spinning in place so fast he felt something pop in his neck. The noise had been the sound of the staff exit door smashing against the wall, Grantaire having pushed it open so forcefully. He stood on the other side of the room for a moment, stock still as he took in the sight of Enjolras standing over his open sketchbook, then burst into motion, practically running towards the bar. 

“It was open,” Enjolras said quickly, standing back as Grantaire approached, face pale and tight. He slammed the book closed hard enough to make Enjolras wince. “I didn’t mean to,” he said, the tension radiating from Grantaire setting him on edge. “It was open, so –” 

“It’s okay,” Grantaire said brusquely, colour rushing back into his cheeks and reddening them as he bundled the sketchbook into his bag and dragged it off the counter, already backing away again. Slipping through Enjolras’ fingers. “I left it, it was an accident – it doesn’t matter. We can just forget about it, and I’ll go.” He turned and started to walk quickly back to the exit and Enjolras leapt forward. 

“Wait!” 

“Forget about it, Apollo.” Grantaire kept walking and Enjolras ran after him, heart hammering in his chest. 

“Grantaire, _wait_ , please.” 

“ _What_ , Apollo?” Grantaire turned abruptly, face still flushed bright red. “I’ve got stuff to do, okay? I need to go.” 

“I didn’t mean it,” Enjolras blurted. “I mean…I did, but I didn’t –” 

“Mean what?” Grantaire interrupted, frowning. Every fibre of his body seemed to be inching towards the door. 

“What I said before.” Enjolras’ tongue felt clumsy in his mouth, his mind too full of panic for eloquence. 

“Oh.” Grantaire’s mouth twisted. “You mean when you called me a coward?” He met Enjolras’ eyes, and Enjolras couldn’t do anything but stand in helpless silence. “Forget about it,” Grantaire said quietly, after a painfully long moment. “It’s not like it wasn’t true.” 

“No, it isn’t true,” Enjolras found his voice at last, stepping forward as Grantaire turned to leave. “That’s the…point.” Guilt burned in his stomach, and he swallowed. “You’re not a coward.” 

“My inability to ‘stand up’ says otherwise, don’t you think?” Grantaire said softly, dry and horribly accepting. 

“No.” Enjolras resisted the urge to step forward – he didn’t want to make Grantaire step backwards, closer to the door. “I was wrong. I know you’re not a coward.” 

Grantaire tilted his chin. “You changed your mind pretty fast.” 

“I…” Enjolras glanced down at the bag Grantaire was clutching to his chest. “I saw your sketchbook.” Grantaire’s fingers tightened around it, and when Enjolras looked back up at his face, Grantaire looked almost desperate. 

“They’re just drawings,” he whispered. 

Art was bearing your soul, Jehan had said. What was even remotely cowardly about that? 

“They’re brave,” Enjolras told him, hoping he would understand. “ _You’re_ brave. And…and I’m an idiot. You’re brilliant, and I’m an asshole, and I’m sorry.” 

Grantaire exhaled slowly, the harried look fading from his eyes. There was a long moment while they just looked at each other, the tension leaking from each of their bodies. “You want to go?” Grantaire asked finally, and Enjolras broke into a relieved smile. 

“Yeah.” 

“HEY, FAUCHER!” Grantaire bellowed, not moving. 

A pause, then, “WHAT?” 

“WE’RE OFF!” Grantaire shouted, and stepped back to hold the exit door open for Enjolras. “Shall we?” 

Enjolras could only grin. 

Outside, the air was warm, heavy with the promise of rain, but Enjolras knew Grantaire had a collapsible umbrella in his bag if the heavens decided to open. “It’s not brave,” Grantaire said quietly as they reached the end of the road and the first drops began to fall. He sighed and pulled the umbrella out, handing it to Enjolras to unfold. They had to huddle close to fit underneath it, their shoulders pressed together, and Enjolras’ breath caught in his chest. 

“No?” he managed to say. 

Grantaire shot him a humourless smile. “It’s masochistic.” 

Enjolras considered that for a moment. “Do you think,” he said slowly, “every time we organise a petition or a protest, we genuinely believe the government or whoever we’re hoping to get the attention of will see our posters and hear our voices and immediately change their minds? We’re all masochistic in some way or another.” 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “I thought you believed in the power of the people?” 

Something in Enjolras thrilled – maybe they _could_ talk about these things without accidentally ruining their friendship. “I do,” he said casually, “but the power of the people with the money is undeniable.” 

“So why risk your own life on it?” Grantaire asked evenly. 

Enjolras snorted. “Our _lives?_ It’s not that dramatic.” 

“Isn’t it?” Grantaire shook his head. “A criminal record could ruin any hope of a future career. Your life can be made almost impossible to live freely if your name reaches the wrong ears. Why risk it?” 

“Because we _have_ that choice,” Enjolras said firmly. “And there are plenty of people whose lives are made unfairly difficult from the moment they’re born, and they didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t risk anything, so why should they be punished in a system that rewards the people who oppress them?” 

“What happens if Joly gets arrested?” Grantaire asked flatly. “What happens if a protest or a rally turns into a riot and someone gets hurt? If Feuilly gets fired because his boss doesn’t like the idea of an activist on the payroll, how will he pay his rent? If Marius’ grandfather decides it’s Les Amis’ fault his grandson won’t come home and pulls the strings to force you to disband it? Where will you be twenty years in the future if you have a criminal record as long as your arm? You can’t expect to be able to spit in the faces of the people in power and get away with it for long.” 

“We have to try,” Enjolras insisted, meeting Grantaire’s eyes squarely and keeping his voice low. Losing his temper wasn’t an option. “You think we don’t know these things? Change comes slowly, when it comes at all, but we have to at least _try_.” 

“You’ll break your neck trying,” Grantaire said, a touch bitterly. 

“I hope not,” Enjolras replied simply. “But I can’t keep my mouth shut either.” 

“I’ve noticed,” Grantaire smirked humourlessly. “I guess I’m just a selfish bastard,” he said after a moment. “At the end of the day, I care more about my friends than the faceless multitudes. You just care about everyone equally.” 

“There are some I care about more than others,” Enjolras said, glancing sideways at him. Grantaire looked away, but it looked like he might be suppressing a smile, so Enjolras grinned and pressed their shoulders closer together. And after a moment’s hesitation, Grantaire pressed back. 

 

Enjolras sat down heavily on the sofa next to Jehan. “I need your help.” 

Jehan grinned and popped a bookmark in his book before he closed it and turned to face Enjolras properly. “I was wondering when you’d come to me,” he said smugly. “There’s only so much Courfeyrac can cover.” 

Enjolras was going to _stab_ Courfeyrac. And then take photos as he bled out to display as examples of what happened to anyone who seriously pissed him off. “He told you,” he said between gritted teeth. Jehan just laughed and knocked their shoulders together. 

“I can’t believe you’re even asking that. Besides, I pretty much already knew. I’m glad you figured it out though.” 

“For Christ’s sake,” Enjolras snapped. “I refuse to believe you saw this coming as well.” 

Jehan smiled sunnily. “Why? Courfeyrac and I are good at this sort of stuff.” 

“Next you’ll be telling me you arranged for me to get the job with him,” Enjolras grumbled. 

“No.” Jehan patted his arm. “That was pure chance. Or fate, if you like. Anyway – how can I help?” 

Enjolras’ shoulders slumped. “I have no idea what to do,” he admitted, grudgingly. “Courfeyrac said I needed a plan, but I’m not sure, and I don’t know how to even come up with something that will work.” 

Jehan put an arm around his shoulders and sighed, pleased. “The important thing is that you _want_ it to work,” he said comfortingly. 

“Just wanting it isn’t enough,” Enjolras muttered, his cheeks growing warm. “I don’t know how to tell him.” He was fairly sure that Grantaire liked him back, but there was always the slim possibility that he’d misinterpreted the paintings and sketches – he knew next to nothing about art, after all, and Grantaire had drawn their other friends before. 

“And you want me to act as your soundboard?” Jehan cocked his head. 

“No, I just…what should I do?” Enjolras hated feeling this helpless, but at least Jehan wouldn’t mock or tease. 

Jehan hummed thoughtfully. “Okay. Are we going on the assumption that you’re making the first move here?” 

“…yes.” 

“Alright, probably for the best. Have you given any thought to location?” 

“Location?” 

“Yeah – where you’d like to make this hypothetical move.” 

“Um.” Enjolras swallowed, sure his face was flaming by now. “I don’t know? Not really?” 

“Well, you have options,” Jehan told him. “You could ask him out – phrase it so it’s casual, nothing too date-like. A walk or something, not a restaurant or a bar. You could tell him in email – that’s worked for me before.” 

“How much poetry did you use?” Enjolras asked dryly. 

Jehan frowned at him reproachfully. “None, actually. That exchange was almost entirely prose.” 

“Almost?” 

“Well, we were discussing song lyrics, so it wasn’t _all_ prose.” 

“Of course.” 

Jehan huffed and leaned into him, relaxing. “Have you even tried _imagining_ telling him?” 

“No.” He had, but Grantaire was too unpredictable for him to ever get far. 

“Typical,” Jehan sighed. “Okay, well your easiest option would be doing this at work, yes? You’re alone then, aren’t you? It’s private?” 

“Yes.” Enjolras thought for a moment about getting Grantaire’s attention while they were both cleaning and just blurting it out, but just the mental image was embarrassing. 

“That’s good.” Jehan squeezed his shoulders. “Private is good.” _Fewer people to witness the potential humiliation_ he didn’t add, but he didn’t really have to. Enjolras heard it perfectly clearly, and shrank slightly in his seat. 

“There has to be an easier way of doing this.” 

“There is.” Jehan said brightly. Enjolras narrowed his eyes. 

“How?” 

“Just kiss him.” 

A beat. “Just…kiss him.” Enjolras repeated sarcastically. 

Jehan shrugged. “If you approach carefully, it’s easy to tell if it’s going to work.” 

“How?” Enjolras demanded. 

“Wait, my question first.” Jehan frowned. “Have you ever kissed anyone, Enjolras?” 

This literally could not get any more excruciating. 

“…no.” 

“Oh. Well, it doesn’t matter,” Jehan shrugged. “A lot of it’s instinct anyway. For instance.” He pulled back slightly and turned to face Enjolras, holding his gaze for a second before tilting his head and moving forward. Enjolras jerked back, eyes wide. 

“ _What are you doing?_ ” 

Jehan stopped and grinned. “See? _Instinctively_ , you moved away because you didn’t want to kiss me. No offense taken, by the way.” 

“Great,” Enjolras said in a strangled voice, leaning as far back as he could with Jehan’s arm around his shoulders keeping him still. 

Jehan sat back again and Enjolras slowly relaxed, still a bit wary. “If a person you like does that when you try to kiss them, or turns their face so you hit their cheek instead, it’s usually a pretty good indication that your feelings aren’t reciprocated,” Jehan told him. 

“You don’t say?” Enjolras snorted. 

“Like I said,” Jehan smiled serenely. “Instinct. A kiss could work pretty well, actually – R doesn’t always trust words. And an action gets a point across much better in some cases.” 

As Bahorel was fond of saying – a brick through a window was almost always more effective than a petition, no matter how many signatures it held. 

“So, you recommend I just kiss him? Out of the blue?” Enjolras asked. 

Jehan pulled a face. “Maybe not completely out of the blue. You don’t want to startle him.” 

“He’s a person, not a gazelle.” 

Jehan grinned. “He could still freak out and run, you know. Probably not far, because it’s pretty difficult to avoid you, but I think it’d be better to avoid that.” 

“Preferably.” 

“Mm.” 

“So how can I…” Enjolras struggled to find the right words. “ _Not_ make it out of the blue?” 

“Ease him into it, you mean?” Jehan drummed his fingers on his knee for a moment. “Touching’s good. Getting close to him would probably work – nothing too obvious, but not too subtle either.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like finding excuses to touch him,” Jehan shrugged. “You know, touching his hand when he hands you stuff, walking closer to him when you go places. Pretending he has something on his shirt or in his hair is always a good one. Try to be as natural as possible, obviously. Continue as normal, basically, but with more touching. And a few well-placed compliments wouldn’t hurt either, though with R it’s always hard to tell whether he’ll brush it off or think you’re just joking.” 

Enjolras frowned. “He does that a lot.” 

Jehan sighed. “Yeah, he does. Don’t take it personally – that’s just how he is. Enjolras…” He pulled away and looked Enjolras steadily in the eyes. “I know you’re serious about this, because you’re never anything but fully committed, but please be careful. For R, obviously, but for yourself too.” 

“For myself?” Enjolras repeated, raising his eyebrows. 

“Opening yourself to happiness means opening yourself up to pain too, you know,” Jehan said softly. 

“It’s worth it,” Enjolras said simply, and made an undignified wheezing noise when Jehan pulled him into a tight hug. 

“Everyone’s got a bit of poetry in their soul,” he grinned against Enjolras’ shoulder. “Good luck.” 

Enjolras breathed out against Jehan’s hair and tried to remember the mixture of exhilaration and anxiety that had accompanied his first participation in a protest march. The way his insides seemed to squirm at the thought of telling Grantaire how he felt was just like that, only intensified. He thanked Jehan anyway – he’d need all the luck he could get. 

 

“You don’t know any self-defence at _all?_ ” Grantaire gaped at him and Enjolras shrugged. 

“Not beyond ducking and dodging.” 

“Jesus Christ. How the hell have you survived this long?” 

“I’m good at talking my way out of sticky situations?” Enjolras threw a smirk over his shoulder. Grantaire, sitting on the top railing of the barrier, rolled his eyes. 

“Good thing too, or your pretty face would be a broken mess by now, the number of people you’ve pissed off.” 

Enjolras went over to dunk the mop into the bucket and hoped the leap his heart had made wasn’t too obvious in his voice when he asked, “Did you just call me pretty?” 

Grantaire’s eyes widened and he sucked his lower lip between his teeth. “Maybe?” he said tentatively. Enjolras grinned. 

“I’m flattered.” 

Grantaire smiled back, crooked and a little shy. “Well. My point stands – want to keep your good looks, you should learn to defend yourself properly.” 

“Like you?” Enjolras challenged. Grantaire swung his legs and shrugged. 

“I’m not bad. Bahorel’s better.” 

“You taught _him_ to kickbox, didn’t you?” 

“A bit,” Grantaire nodded, “but kickboxing has rules and stuff. Bahorel doesn’t really go for that angle. Not that anyone does in a real fight.” 

“Teach me then,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire tilted his head. 

“Seriously?” 

“What, you go on about self-defence and you weren’t going to offer?” Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “What did you think I’d do, hire an instructor? Pay them by cleaning their house?” 

Grantaire laughed. “You could clean houses – you’re handy with a vacuum now.” 

“Remind me to put it on my CV,” Enjolras said dryly. 

“Don’t think I won’t.” Grantaire turned and slid off the rail, landing on the bar side. “Mind if I put music on?” 

“Nope.” Enjolras picked the bucket up and smiled at him before he started hauling it to the far end of the bowling alley. He couldn’t mop them at all now without thinking of the painting in Grantaire’s sketchbook, and he didn’t mind in the slightest. 

Today’s music choice was a man with a smooth voice, somehow familiar though Enjolras hadn’t heard the song Grantaire put on before. “Who’s this?” he shouted over to the bar. 

“Rufus Wainwright,” Grantaire called back. 

“Why do I recognise him?” 

“He did the _Hallelujah_ song in Shrek?” 

“That’s it.” The lyrics were difficult to make out at a distance, but the closer Enjolras got the better he could hear Grantaire singing along, his diction clear and his voice strong, especially when he forgot himself and sang loudly. 

“Ohhh, look at you, look at you, look at you, look at you _suckers!_ Does your mama know what you’re doing?” 

Enjolras grinned as he mopped, gutters to seating areas, blood humming in time with the sound of Grantaire’s exuberance. Several songs had passed by the time he finally got to the last lane, closest to the bar, and he caught Grantaire smiling at him occasionally as he drew closer, singing purposefully to him as the next song began. “Cigarettes and chocolate milk,” he grinned, sketchbook in his lap as usual. “These are just a couple of my cravings…everything it seems I like’s a little bit stronger, a little bit thicker, a little bit harmful for me.” 

Enjolras laughed and started mopping the final lane, feeling Grantaire’s eyes on his back as he worked. The air was charged, and he didn’t bother hiding his smile when he looked up and caught Grantaire in the act. Grantaire just sang louder, making Enjolras laugh again as he finished up. 

“I’m just a little bit heiress, a little bit Irish, a little bit…” Grantaire tilted his head up and smiled crookedly. “Tower of Pisa, whenever I see ya, so please be kind…” Enjolras watched silently as he ducked his head and seemed to focus on whatever he was drawing. “…if I’m a mess,” he finished quietly, smile still in place, and it was all Enjolras could do to drag his eyes away and lug the bucket back to the kitchen, heart pumping wildly in his chest. 

When he emerged, Grantaire had spun to face the bar, sketchbook on the counter instead of in his lap, working with shoulders hunched over and face turned from Enjolras’. Enjolras went over as quietly as he could, but Grantaire still heard him coming and closed the sketchbook before he got there. “Ready?” he asked, still smiling. 

Enjolras nodded, and tapped the cover of the sketchbook with one finger. “How close are you to finishing?” 

“What, the whole book?” 

“Yeah. You said you might let me see it when you’d finished,” he reminded Grantaire, whose smile turned wry. 

“Well, you’ve already seen some.” 

“I’d love to see more,” Enjolras leaned against the bar. “I mean, if you’d let me.” 

Grantaire spun on his stool to face him properly. “Well,” he started, stopped, tried for a smile that looked too nervous to be convincing. “They are all of you,” he went on quietly. “You’ve got more of a right to see them than anyone else, really.” 

Enjolras smiled slightly, certain he could feel the waves of heat coming from Grantaire’s body. “I’m this semester’s muse?” 

Grantaire looked pained for a second or two, the twist to his lips not even slightly resembling a smile anymore. “You’ve always sort of been my muse,” he admitted quietly. 

Now. Enjolras needed to do something _now_. But he’d have to lean in over Grantaire’s knees to kiss him now; he needed him to stand up. Grantaire’s expression was apprehensive, expecting some sort of rejection, and for once all words had utterly deserted Enjolras. He reached out instinctively for Grantaire’s hand, tense on his thigh. As his fingertips brushed the back of Grantaire’s knuckles, Grantaire glanced down and blinked. After a moment, his hand shifted and Enjolras laced their fingers together, pulling gently until Grantaire followed, standing in front of him with bright eyes and slightly parted lips. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Enjolras confessed after a moment, curling his fingers around Grantaire’s, not sure what to do with his other hand, or his feet, or _anything_. 

Grantaire swallowed before he spoke, and Enjolras’ eyes tracked the movement of his throat. “Which part?” he croaked. 

“Any of it,” Enjolras blurted. All of it. Anything. Everything. _Show me_ , he wanted to beg. _Show me what to do_. 

Grantaire tilted his head, frowning just slightly, somehow still hesitant. “But you want to?” 

Enjolras nodded, and added an emphatic, “ _Yes_ ,” just in case Grantaire needed verbal confirmation. Whether it was that or the nodding, Grantaire seemed to finally get the message, a real smile growing on his face as he squeezed Enjolras’ hand and shuffled forward to close the last distance between them. 

Grantaire was shorter. Not by much, only a couple of inches or so, but Enjolras felt the difference acutely in the angle of his head as Grantaire’s free hand came to rest on his side, impossibly large and warm, a brand against Enjolras’ skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. His hand found Grantaire’s elbow and curled around it, holding on tight as his eyes fluttered almost shut. He felt a puff of air on his lips the second before they finally connected with Grantaire’s, and he made a small sound as something hot and delicious coiled in the pit of his stomach at the sensation. 

Kissing was amazing. Kissing Grantaire was the best thing, to date, that had ever happened to him, and that included discovering that a petition he and Combeferre had started had caused a government memo to be revised and the third meeting of Les Amis, when everything had just _clicked_. Right now, this eclipsed all of those things, and Enjolras let go of Grantaire’s hand to finally push his fingers into the mess of overlong black curls and pull him closer. 

Grantaire slid the hand Enjolras had let go up Enjolras’ back, hot and heavy against his spine, and Enjolras relaxed under it. Grantaire made a low noise in his throat and the hand moved suddenly to Enjolras’ face, cupping his jaw and pressing just slightly, tilting his head a little. Enjolras opened his mouth without thinking, and felt Grantaire’s gasp against his lips before they came back together. 

Everything was overwhelming, like he had been deprived of sensation up till now and it was all flooding his brain at once. Enjolras couldn’t think clearly beyond categorising the unbelievably wonderful feeling of Grantaire’s tongue against his, Grantaire’s hands on the side of his neck and clenched in the fabric of his shirt, the heat where their chests were almost touching. It made perfect sense for Enjolras to drag both hands down Grantaire’s back (toes curling when Grantaire made a breathless sound that Enjolras could actually _feel_ in his own mouth) and pull him as close as possible. 

Grantaire responded by pulling Enjolras to him as well, one foot nudging against Enjolras’ as he curved up into the kiss, and Enjolras’ eyes flickered open, just for a second, because he’d never done this before and he wanted to take it all in properly. 

Grantaire’s eyes were closed tight, and Enjolras sighed into his mouth as the hand on his neck slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the roots. His eyes fell shut again and he just drifted, every inch of him lighting up and singing under Grantaire’s hands and heat and glorious tongue. 

After some time – Enjolras had no idea how long, but his mouth was dry and his lips felt chapped – Grantaire pulled back, only enough to look Enjolras in the eye. He kept his arms around Enjolras, holding tight, and Enjolras blinked fuzzily, wondering if he looked as wrecked as Grantaire did. “We should go,” Grantaire breathed, and had his eyes always held so many different shades of blue? 

“What?” Enjolras managed to mutter, glancing down at Grantaire’s lips, still wet and very red. 

Grantaire made a sound Enjolras couldn’t categorise (happiness? Amusement?) before they were kissing again, and who cared? This was more important. This was everything. This was worth the risk a hundred times over, worth toppling governments and starting revolutions for. Worth leaving all that for a while to just keep doing this, telling Grantaire without words how much he never wanted to leave or stop. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire’s voice was shaky, “Enjolras, we need to go, we can’t stay here.” 

“What? Oh.” Enjolras nodded, still a little dizzy. They couldn’t stay – Faucher needed to lock up. It was a miracle he hadn’t come out already to see what was taking so long. 

Grantaire grinned and kissed him again, no tongue – just a quick press of their lips – and drew away to grab his bag and sketchbook. Enjolras watched, arms limp at his sides, suddenly bereft without Grantaire pressed against him. He had the presence of mind to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but that was all he could manage beyond just staring. When Grantaire turned back to him, his smile held an edge of nervousness Enjolras was quick to erase with another kiss, open-mouthed and hot. 

“Ready?” he asked, and Grantaire laughed breathlessly. 

“Yeah. I’ll…I’ll just tell Faucher we’re off.” He nearly tripped over his own feet on his way to Faucher’s office, and Enjolras found that he could only move when Grantaire knocked on the office door and said loudly that they were done. They got to the staff exit at the same time, and Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hand as they left, holding on just to reassure himself that he could. 

It took them twice as long to walk back as usual because they kept pausing to kiss each other. Against walls, under streetlamps, in the shadows cast by trees. “This is so fucking surreal,” Grantaire laughed with wide, wondering eyes as Enjolras tugged him close and kissed him for the hundredth time. “We’ll never get home at this rate,” he murmured. 

“Fine by me,” Enjolras said, smiling against Grantaire’s lips. “You’ve got that look again,” he squeezed Grantaire’s hand a minute later and pulled him under the awning of a closed café. 

“Look?” Grantaire repeated, dazed. 

“Like you’re not sure this is real,” Enjolras explained, pressing light kisses to Grantaire’s cheek and jaw, a thrill racing through his body when Grantaire’s head tipped back and exposed the long stretch of his neck. 

“Can you blame me?” Grantaire asked, and his laugh turned to a shiver and a surprised gasp as Enjolras opened his mouth against the soft skin where his jaw met his neck. “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

Enjolras flicked his tongue over the pulse point and kissed his way back up to Grantaire’s mouth. “Every time you look like that,” he muttered, “I’m going to kiss you.” 

Grantaire laughed and pulled him closer. “Okay then,” he grinned, though he kept shooting Enjolras amazed looks every few seconds as they stumbled down the road. At the crossroads they kissed against the wall for what felt like hours before they drew apart reluctantly. “It’s pretty late,” Grantaire whispered. 

“What time is it?” 

“Hang on.” Grantaire pulled his phone out and checked. “Fucking hell.” 

“What?” Enjolras leaned in to see. The screen read 02:47, and his jaw dropped. “ _Oh_.” How much time had they spent kissing in American Bowl? 

“I’d better go.” Grantaire put his phone away and Enjolras nodded, though a significant part of him was wondering whether they could just go somewhere together and keep going. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

At the Musain, where everyone tended to congregate on a Sunday. Enjolras nodded again, and smiled. “Yeah.” 

Grantaire kissed him again, and again, and it took Enjolras a few minutes to catch his breath after Grantaire had finally walked away, looking over his shoulder to smile at him before he turned the corner out of sight. And all the way back to his apartment, Enjolras couldn’t stop smiling. Every time he tried, it just grew, and he gave up after a while. 

As he approached the building, a familiar figure turned the corner at the other end of the street, and they reached the door at roughly the same time. “Enjolras!” Courfeyrac beamed, clearly a little intoxicated. “What’re you doing out so late?” 

“It’s not that late.” Enjolras unlocked the door and let them both in. Courfeyrac walked behind him up the stairs, humming something under his breath, but when they reached their floor, he grabbed Enjolras’ arm and stared at him. 

“Oh my god.” 

Enjolras pulled away, blushing. “What?” 

“You did it, didn’t you?” Courfeyrac sounded utterly delighted, and Enjolras couldn’t stop the smile sliding onto his face. He ducked his head and busied himself with letting them into the apartment, but Courfeyrac bounced round to face him and let out a hushed sound of glee. “You fucking did it, didn’t you?” 

Oh fuck it. “Yeah,” Enjolras admitted, not even trying to hide his grin anymore, and Courfeyrac made a noise that could only be described as a squeak, leaping forward and wrapping his arms round Enjolras in a crushing hug. 

“I’m so proud of you!” he crooned. “And R! I’ll send him a congratulations text right fucking now, oh my god. How did it happen, tell me everything.” 

Enjolras shrugged. “It just kind of did.” 

“Urgh, you’re useless. Who kissed who?” Courfeyrac clapped his hands together demandingly and Enjolras laughed. 

“Me. I kissed him.” 

“Yeah you did!” Courfeyrac hugged him again and sighed dreamily as he pulled away. “This is the best, I’m so happy for you guys. He’s coming to the Musain tomorrow, right?” 

“As far as I know.” Enjolras hoped so. 

“I am going to bake a fucking cake,” Courfeyrac declared. 

“You’re not allowed to bake anymore,” Enjolras reminded him. Not after the incident with the burning chocolate cake and the truly disgusting experiment with the dragon fruit. 

“I’ll get Jehan to bake a cake,” Courfeyrac amended, pulling his phone out. “And a congratulations text is the perfect way to ask R what flavour he’d like. Hell, maybe I’ll just call him and shriek down the phone.” 

“You do that,” Enjolras snorted and crossed the room to his bedroom. “Goodnight.” 

“Night, o fearless wooer of artists,” Courfeyrac smirked, his expression lighting up when Grantaire answered the phone. “R? R! _Congratulations!_ ” 

Enjolras grinned and slipped into his bedroom as Courfeyrac gushed down the phone to Grantaire, exhaustion hitting him out of nowhere like a freight train. He didn’t bother changing properly – just stripped down to his boxers and fell into bed, asleep in less than a minute. 

 

It was different in daylight, and Enjolras was nervous, crowded in ‘their’ corner of the Musain with the others. But when Grantaire, Marius, and Cosette turned up, Cosette promptly shoved Grantaire in Enjolras’ direction hard enough to make him stumble. Enjolras reached out to steady him, and in the same motion pulled Grantaire down onto the sofa next to him. 

Bahorel cooed and Éponine teased, but Combeferre steered their attention away long enough for Grantaire to lean close and whisper, “We’re really doing this then?” 

“If it’s alright with you,” Enjolras muttered back, finding Grantaire’s hand and touching it lightly. Grantaire flipped it palm-up and twined their fingers together loosely, a grin spreading across his face. 

“Yeah, it’s alright with me.” 

Enjolras could only smile and mentally calculate how long it would be before they could slip away and he’d be able to kiss Grantaire again. Grantaire laughed as if he could tell what Enjolras was thinking and leaned into him, body solid and warm against Enjolras’ side. Hours later, as soon as he could, Enjolras caught Grantaire’s arm as they left the Musain, the others kindly going ahead to give them a little privacy. 

They kissed breathlessly on the pavement, heedless of whoever saw, till Éponine shouted back at them to hurry up. “This is still really fucking surreal,” Grantaire grinned, and Enjolras shook his head. 

“Not that surreal. Opposites attract, apparently.” 

“I’ve heard that,” Grantaire nodded, grabbing Enjolras’ hand and squeezing. 

“So,” Enjolras glanced at him after a moment, “does this mean I get to see your work when it’s finished?” 

Grantaire shrugged. “Might take me a while to finish if you keep distracting me.” 

“I distract you?” Enjolras grinned, and Grantaire rolled his eyes. 

“Does he distract me, he asks. What a question. As if watching you mop floors and being patient with annoying kids isn’t the most distracting thing ever put in front of me. Fate is cruel.” 

“You’ve painted me mopping,” Enjolras pointed out. “Surely that makes me inspirational, not distracting?” 

Grantaire scoffed, softening the effect with a grin. “Tch, models. So eager to take credit for the artwork.” 

“And besides,” Enjolras nudged him. “Fate’s worked out okay, don’t you think?” 

Grantaire looked at him sideways. “That’s an understatement,” he said, voice a little shaky. 

Enjolras kissed him quickly. “You had the look,” he explained when he drew back. “And I’m pretty sure kissing you is my new favourite thing, so it works out in my favour.” A small part of him was also impressed that he could apparently kiss and walk at the same time. 

“Hnng,” Grantaire said, then cleared his throat, two spots of pink high on his cheeks. Enjolras studied him, fascinated, and Grantaire looked up and exhaled heavily. “So,” he glanced at Enjolras, “I’ve been drawing you behind your back for ages. How do you feel about actually posing for me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a bit of a Rufus Wainwright kick at the moment, and I'm totally okay with it. The first song Grantaire sings along to is [Out Of The Game](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KvTDeHlIfI), the second is [Cigarettes And Chocolate Milk](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d5CLmflrwIA), which is one of those songs that just fits Grantaire like a glove.


	4. Epilogue

It was a good thing Enjolras listened to audio books while Grantaire drew and painted him, because listening to textbooks was a good distraction from the way Grantaire made him feel when he arranged Enjolras’ body with gentle hands and the occasional instruction and sat back to capture what he saw on paper. It always happened in Grantaire’s bedroom too, because he still preferred working out of sight of prying eyes, and it usually ended with Grantaire putting his sketchbook aside and pausing whatever Enjolras was listening to. 

Enjolras wouldn’t move or speak at first, just watch Grantaire’s eyes roam over him, his skin prickling and his heart rate increasing. Then Grantaire would make his move. The first time it had happened, he’d slid a hand under the edge of Enjolras’ t-shirt and whispered, “Can I?” 

Enjolras had nodded, and Grantaire had pulled it off, infinitely gentle. There was something indescribable about the way Grantaire would control everything, moving Enjolras’ hands and nuzzling his nose, close enough to kiss but not quite doing it, walking him where he wanted Enjolras to be. Leading him. Guiding him. 

That first time, he’d taken Enjolras’ wrists, one in each hand, and walked him back slowly until Enjolras’ shoulders and back were against the wall. Then he’d lifted Enjolras’ arms and held them against the wall too, high above his head so he was exposed and open. Grantaire had grinned and kissed him until Enjolras was pliant and relaxed, holding him in place with his body, broad where Enjolras was lean. He hadn’t pinned his wrists so much as held them up, and laughed quietly into Enjolras’ neck. 

“What?” Enjolras’ heart had been thudding against his lungs, eyelids heavy as he gazed at Grantaire. 

“You, like this.” Grantaire had drawn back a little and dragged his eyes up Enjolras’ body. “It’s a good look, that’s all.” 

“Paint a picture,” Enjolras had smirked. “It’ll last longer.” 

“Maybe later.” 

Grantaire was more experienced, so it made sense for him to take the lead, but Enjolras found that he liked being led. It took the pressure off, somewhat. Made it easier to relax. And they were taking it slow, teasing each other at every stage. 

“Have you ever been…?” Enjolras paused, not sure how to phrase it. They were both in Grantaire’s bed, naked and loose-limbed, and Grantaire hummed, rolling over and propping his head on his hand to raise an eyebrow at Enjolras. 

“Been…?” 

“I don’t want to say fucked,” Enjolras closed his eyes. “But I can’t think of another way of putting it right now.” 

“Brain not up to speed?” Grantaire teased. Enjolras swatted his shoulder lightly. 

“Not right now, no.” 

Grantaire preened and pressed a kiss to Enjolras’ cheek. “In answer to your question,” he murmured, “yes, I have been.” 

“What’s it like?” 

“Good.” Grantaire flopped back onto the pillow and exhaled heavily. “Sometimes, anyway. Sometimes not so good. Depends who you’re with.” 

“Who were you with?” 

Grantaire turned to face him, expression guarded. “Why’d you want to know?” 

Enjolras shrugged. “Curious, that’s all.” 

“Hmph. No one you know, at any rate,” Grantaire looked up again. “No one special. No one good.” 

“You didn’t like them?” 

“Not really. I…last year wasn’t exactly a great time for me.” 

Enjolras had seen some of Grantaire’s work from last year – a few of the larger canvases he had to keep in his room because there was nowhere else they could go. He kept their fronts against the wall, but Enjolras had looked, with his permission, and examined the screams and darkness painted onto the bruised canvases. A self-portrait mostly obscured by deep gashes where Grantaire had scraped layers of paint back from the material, ripped and ugly. A startlingly detailed painting of an abandoned bar that practically oozed silence; broken glass and plaster on the floor, damp on the walls, wooden stools and countertop rotting where they stood. A multi-media piece that showed a view down the neck of a bottle, oil-slick colours and strange indistinct images laid over with so many words in black print none of them were legible. 

They were beautiful, but they were beautiful the way broken things were beautiful. They hurt to look at. They radiated despair and loneliness and pain and endless, furious, agonised frustration. After looking at them, Enjolras had climbed into Grantaire’s lap on the bed and stared for a moment at his anxious expression before pressing him down and kissing him over and over. He’d undressed Grantaire piece by piece, and kissed each bit of skin revealed until Grantaire was panting, chest flushed and hands fisted in the sheets. 

Enjolras pressed his face against Grantaire’s neck. “How’s this year treating you?” he asked quietly. 

Grantaire laughed, and Enjolras rolled onto his side and put a hand on Grantaire’s chest to feel it. “So far, miles better. I’ve probably never been happier.” 

“Me neither,” Enjolras smiled and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Grantaire’s shoulder. “Just so you know. R?” 

“Mm?” 

“Could we? I mean, you know…we've done everything else, basically, but could we...” 

“Have sex?” Grantaire turned to face him and Enjolras nodded, smiling when Grantaire dipped his head to kiss him. “Yeah,” he said when he pulled back, crooked smile in place. “We could do that. How do you want to do that? Like…” 

“Top or bottom, you mean?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Either. Both.” 

Grantaire laughed and kissed him again, rolling on top of him and running a hand through Enjolras’ hair where it fanned out on the pillow. “Any preference for your first time?” he asked easily. 

Enjolras breathed out unsteadily. “No,” he lied, not quite able to ask Grantaire to be the one who fucked him. He’d been thinking about it a lot recently, but he wasn’t ready to ask yet. Not with words, at any rate. 

“Okay then.” Grantaire brushed his lips across Enjolras’ nose and down to his chin, breath warm on Enjolras’ throat. “Well, it’s been a…while, for me, so we could probably work up to it together? Take it slow?” 

“We’re good at that,” Enjolras smiled and turned his head to capture Grantaire’s lips. 

“We are,” Grantaire agreed pleasantly when they’d stopped kissing. “Exceptional, one might say.” 

“Mmmm.” Enjolras kissed him again, languid and unhurried, something warm purring in his chest at the way they’d both said ‘we’. “We could start now?” he suggested, loving the way Grantaire’s face lit up with amusement. 

“You’re insatiable. I love it.” 

“Pot, kettle.” 

“You love it.” 

“I do.” Enjolras arched up into him. “So…” he looped his arms over Grantaire’s waist and didn’t look away. “How do we do this?” 

Grantaire bit his lip. “Well,” he said slowly, eyes taking in every tiny movement Enjolras made. “I’ve done it before, so…you could go first?” 

Enjolras nodded. _Perfect_. “Okay.” 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Grantaire breathed, closing his eyes for a second. 

“You okay?” 

“Give me a second to take this in, okay?” 

“Surreal?” Enjolras said dryly. 

“So fucking surreal. And amazing.” He opened his eyes and kissed Enjolras quickly, laughing a little. “And every synonym of amazing you can currently think of.” 

“That’s a lot.” 

“Yeah?” Grantaire pushed himself up on his elbows and rolled off Enjolras slightly to stretch an arm out for the bedside table. “Go on then.” 

“Incredible, fantastic, splendid, magnificent…” Enjolras propped his head up on his hand and grinned. “Brilliant, excellent, fabulous –” 

“Show-off,” Grantaire muttered, though he was grinning when he came back, bottle of lube in his hand. 

“Marvellous, wonderful, spectacular,” Enjolras continued, “glorious, tremendous –” 

“Alright, alright,” Grantaire cut him off with a kiss. “Well done, you can do anything, I get it.” 

Enjolras grinned and spread his legs so Grantaire was lying between them, their hips flush together. “So you tell me.” 

“How about…I show you?” Grantaire was obviously well aware of how cheesy he sounded, but Enjolras couldn’t respond when Grantaire was trailing a hand down his thigh and lifting his knee up. “Lay back?” 

Enjolras breathed out slowly and obeyed, keeping his eyes on Grantaire as his other knee was nudged up as well, a cradle for Grantaire to settle into, a space for him to move. He sat up and looked down for a moment to dribble some lube over the index and middle fingers of his right hand. Enjolras was already breathing a little faster, half hard at the thought alone of what they were about to do. “You’re sure about this?” Grantaire checked, and Enjolras nodded. 

“Definitely.” 

Grantaire’s lips quirked, then he put the bottle aside and smoothed his left palm down Enjolras’ chest to his belly. The familiar motion was soothing, and Enjolras let the muscles in his thighs relax, his legs falling a little more open. “You’re gorgeous,” Grantaire murmured, and trailed his fingers past Enjolras’ balls to the skin just before his entrance. “God, I can’t…” he swallowed and brushed his dry fingertip over the hole. Enjolras’ breath caught and Grantaire looked at him. “Do you want…should I keep talking?” 

“Please.” Enjolras’ toes curled when Grantaire slid his left hand back up to his hip and stroked the back of his right down the inside of Enjolras’ thigh. Not teasing, he knew, just letting him know where it was so he wouldn’t startle, but he was fully hard now and when Grantaire touched lube-slick fingers to his entrance, his mouth fell open and his hands curled into the sheet below him. He wished suddenly that he had something to do with them. Something proper to hold, or something holding them.

Grantaire stroked a fingertip in a circle and cleared his throat. “Relax,” he whispered. “You’re great, you’re fine. I’ve got you. Jesus –” He pressed, just slightly, not enough to go in, but Enjolras clenched his hands tighter in the sheets at the feeling. “You have no idea what you look like.” 

“Tell me,” Enjolras managed to say, proud of how clear his voice came out. Grantaire slid his left hand from Enjolras’ hip to his knee, along his thigh, smooth and firm. 

“You’re beautiful,” Grantaire said quietly, eyes dark. “God, I’d paint you like this.” He rubbed his left hand back to Enjolras’ hip slowly, pressing just a little harder with the finger of his right hand. “Maybe paint _on_ you, write my name right onto your skin, R over and over again, different colours and sizes.” 

Enjolras bit back a moan and closed his eyes as Grantaire finally pressed the tip of his finger in, just a little, before pulling it away again. The idea of being painted, being _marked_ , streaks of colour daubed across his chest, his shoulders, his stomach, was intoxicating. “What…” he swallowed and tried again. “What would you use? A…oh…a paintbrush?” 

“No.” Grantaire slid his finger in further and ducked his head to kiss Enjolras’ knee, soft hair brushing against the joint. “No, I’d use my hands. Finger-painting is very satisfying, you know. Maybe I’d use pens for anything intricate. I could make you a forest – trees and leaves and vines growing up from the soles of your feet. Put a sky across your chest – for the lungs.” His finger pushed further in, and it was strange, unfamiliar, but good, and Enjolras tried to hold his eyes open to keep watching Grantaire, because he was flushing and beautiful. 

“I’d leave space for my name, obviously,” Grantaire smiled, crooked his finger as he drew it out, and Enjolras hissed through his teeth. “Enjolras?” 

“Yes,” Enjolras needed something to do with his hands, something more than clutching at the sheet. “I’m good, I’m really good.” 

“You are,” Grantaire agreed. “You’re amazing. And all those synonyms you came up with, you’re all of those too, every single one.” 

“Ngghh.” Enjolras’ eyes fluttered shut again and his chest heaved as Grantaire slid the finger back in and kept it there for a second before dragging it out slowly. It was easy, not painful, and Enjolras ached for more but couldn’t form the words to ask. 

“I could paint you with all those colours,” Grantaire continued, teasing with two fingers when he drew out but only sliding one back in. “Watercolours dripping into each other, maybe, or oils. I’d make it really thick on the canvas, no dilution at all.” 

“ _R_ ,” Enjolras managed to say, shifting his hips and fixing eyes he was sure showed his desire on Grantaire. 

“You ready for more?” 

“ _Yes_.” 

“Okay,” Grantaire whispered, “okay.” He glanced down and Enjolras’ head fell back as two fingers pushed in slowly. One was easy, but two stretched a little, and it felt _good_. He clutched the sheets so hard his fingers started to go numb. “Relax, it’s okay, relax.” His hand slid along Enjolras’ thigh again and Enjolras let go of the sheet with one hand to scrabble for it desperately. Grantaire caught it and let out a surprised grunt when Enjolras squeezed hard. “Enjolras?” He squeezed back and pulled his fingers out. “Does it hurt? Are you okay?” 

“Don’t _stop_ ,” Enjolras huffed. “I just…my hands, I need something to do with my hands.” 

“Ohh.” Grantaire kissed the inside of his knee again and Enjolras opened his eyes to see his smile. “But it doesn’t hurt?” 

“No, no, keep _going!_ ” On the last word, Grantaire pushed his fingers back in and Enjolras pressed his head back into the pillow, arching his back a little, his whole world centred around what Grantaire was doing to him. 

“Something to do with your hands,” Grantaire repeated, pulling them out slowly, pushing them in a little faster. “Like what?” 

“I don’t…” Enjolras struggled to focus. “I don’t know, just…ah, something, anything.” 

“A stress ball?” Grantaire teased, finding a slow rhythm now. “My hand seems to be serving that function pretty well. You’ll have to let go in a second by the way – can’t get more lube with just one hand.” 

“Hn _ngh_.” 

Grantaire moved forward suddenly, lifting their entwined hands and pinning them next to Enjolras’ head, putting all his weight on it for a moment before he got his legs over Enjolras’ side to sprawl against him, taking his fingers away for a second to reposition his arm underneath Enjolras' leg. The way his hand and wrist dipped into the mattress, yielding under Grantaire’s strength made heat coil in his belly, and on the next thrust of Grantaire’s fingers Enjolras gasped aloud. 

“Something to do with your hands,” Grantaire breathed, pressing a hot kiss to his chest. “What would you do if I tied them to the bed?” 

Desire, hot and desperate, made Enjolras gasp, and Grantaire pressed down harder on his hand again, steadily thrusting his fingers in and out between Enjolras’ legs. The combination was setting him on fire, and Enjolras had to swallow twice before he could pant, “R, R…” 

“I think you’d like that,” Grantaire whispered, mouth moving to Enjolras’ pinned wrist and settling over his pulse point. 

“Oh, God.” Enjolras clenched his teeth and bucked as Grantaire curled his fingers inside him and pleasure sang through his veins. 

“You sound like you’d like it,” Grantaire murmured against his wrist, tongue darting out against the thin skin there and followed swiftly by what could only be teeth. Enjolras fought against the urge to whine. “The lack of headboard isn’t a problem – I could tie you to the slats under the mattress. Rope’s best for that, probably, but you’d look amazing in silk, or satin. Something smooth and bright – red, bright red, that’d be gorgeous against your skin, Enjolras, you have no idea –” 

Hearing Grantaire say his name like that, rolling off his tongue in a low tone, pulled an embarrassingly high noise out of Enjolras, slipping between his teeth without his consent. 

Grantaire hummed, pleased, and pushed Enjolras’ hand up higher so he could drag his lips down the inside of his arm to the crook of his elbow. “I could loop some round your hands so you’d have something to hold onto, something to really pull against,” he breathed, “tight and secure so you could yank on it for hours and it wouldn’t give.” 

Enjolras was going to _die_. “Fuck,” he gasped, because it was either curse or beg, and he was already having a hard time thinking straight. “Fuck, fuck, R, please…” 

“I’ve got you,” Grantaire kissed the inside of his elbow. “Are you close?” 

“Not…” Enjolras sucked in an uneven breath and fought to open his eyes. “I can’t, I need –” 

“Yeah,” Grantaire pulled his fingers out completely, and before Enjolras could complain they were on his dick, squeezing just a little, unbelievably warm against his skin. 

“ _Jesus_ Christ, Gran _taire_ –” his voice cracked when Grantaire gave him a quick, tight stroke. 

“Decision time,” Grantaire told him, hand stilling. 

“What?” Enjolras turned his head and stared at him, not even caring if he looked as wild as he felt. 

“I can’t finger you and jerk you off without leaving your hands free,” Grantaire told him, cheeks flushed and pupils huge. 

“I…” Enjolras struggled for a moment to take that in. “I’ve got to choose?” 

Grantaire leaned forward enough to kiss him, and that put a lot of weight on the hand he was still holding. Enjolras’ other hand, sorely neglected, felt horribly light without something pressing it down. “Or,” Grantaire said, pulling away and swallowing, “or, option three, I tangle your hands up in the sheet and we see if that works.” 

“That,” Enjolras said immediately, “yes, option three.” There was no way he’d manage otherwise. 

Grantaire dropped his head for a moment and exhaled heavily. “You are going to be the death of me,” he breathed after a second. “You don’t…Jesus, okay, let me just…” He sat up, taking both hands away, and Enjolras felt the loss keenly for an unpleasant second before Grantaire leaned over him to drag the discarded top sheet over. His side was heavy on Enjolras’ middle, a comforting weight, and Grantaire guided Enjolras’ hands up over his head quickly, crossing the sheet between them and around them in an 8 shape, pulling it tight. “Give it a tug,” he said, voice an octave lower than normal, and Enjolras shivered as he obeyed. “Awesome. Hang on, give me a second…” 

Enjolras twisted onto his side to keep watching as Grantaire looped the sheet around his wrists a couple more times, then dragged the top of the mattress up and did something underneath it. When he let it fall back into place, the sheet went taut, yanking Enjolras’ wrists up higher. “Tied it round the slat,” Grantaire explained huskily, sliding back down next to Enjolras. “Reckon the weight of the mattress will keep it there. Give it another tug?” 

Enjolras did so, and Grantaire nodded, pleased, and ducked in for a long, thorough kiss. Enjolras melted into it, regretting for a moment that he couldn’t pull Grantaire closer, but then Grantaire sat back and nudged his legs apart again, grabbing the lube from the edge of the bed. He gave Enjolras a wicked grin before bending down and licking Enjolras’ cock from base to tip, and suddenly Enjolras very much appreciated having something decent to hold onto, because _fucking hell_. 

“You’re a work of art,” Grantaire breathed against his hip, shifting down to nose at the inside of his thigh. “Christ, Enjolras, you’re a living masterpiece, do you know that? I could train for the next fifty years and not even come close to showing anything like this, no matter what media I worked in.” 

“You could…” Enjolras panted. “You could…take…a photo.” 

“Wouldn’t translate,” Grantaire shook his head, soft curls against Enjolras’ skin and finally, _finally_ , fingers back at his entrance, newly slick and prepared, gliding in easily now. “I could take a thousand photos and it wouldn’t work. Not even video…nothing could capture this, nothing.” 

Enjolras wound his fingers in the sheet encasing his wrists and hands and pulled, the relief when it didn’t give an inch almost overwhelming. “Capture what?” he asked, and sighed when Grantaire’s other hand closed around his dick and began to stroke, lazily. 

“All of this,” Grantaire was thrusting against the bed, Enjolras could feel it through the mattress, and knowing that sent another coil of heat curling through his body. “God, all of it, Enjolras. The way you sound right now, like every word has to be dragged out of you…you’re so…” He slowed his fingers down for a couple of thrusts, then began to ease a third in as well. Enjolras’ chest heaved and he dug his teeth into his lower lip, trying to keep his hips still – no easy feat when Grantaire’s other hand was still jerking him off slowly. “You’re unreal,” Grantaire laughed breathlessly, pushing his head against Enjolras’ knee. 

Enjolras pushed back and dug his heels into the bed as Grantaire got all three fingers in, stretching him open. “You okay?” he panted, rutting hard enough to shake the mattress now. 

“Yes,” Enjolras gasped, “yes, keep…” _going_ , he meant to finish, but then Grantaire started to move his fingers and he just groaned, all words flying from his brain. The sheet he used as leverage to move his body, trying to get Grantaire to go faster, deeper, harder. “R, R, fuck, _R_ –” 

“Enjolras –” Grantaire sped up, both hands pumping in time, and it was so much, too much, too good… “God, you’re so…oh fuck, _fuck_ …” 

Enjolras threw his head back and arched his back, agonisingly close. “R, please –” 

Grantaire made a strangled sound and his rhythm faltered for a second, breath hot on the inside of Enjolras’ thigh as he came, shuddering against the bed, incoherent noises exhaled against Enjolras’ fevered skin. His hands slowed almost to stopping, and Enjolras did whine now, thrusting desperately against them. 

“R, please, please –” 

Grantaire huffed shakily against his leg and resumed his movements, setting a punishingly slow pace apparently designed specifically to torture Enjolras and make him writhe helplessly. “I’ll draw this from memory,” Grantaire rasped. “Christ, I’ll do it in ink – nothing like ink for capturing the lines of a body, like when you do _this_.” He curled his fingers inside Enjolras, making his spine arch like a bow. “God, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful.” He twisted the hand on Enjolras’ dick, coaxing a full-bodied shudder out of him. “I’ll do it in black, yellow for your hair, red for your lips, and your cheeks right now, and your cock. I’ll dilute the red down to paint your curves, Enjolras, show the way your muscles are so tight, your whole body…like an instrument or something, singing for me, just for me.” 

Enjolras came in a sudden rush, his body going completely rigid as a broken sound was physically torn from his throat, hands spasming in the restraints and heels digging so hard into the bed he pushed his back right off the mattress. Grantaire stroked him through it and pressed his mouth against Enjolras’ thigh, only withdrawing his fingers when Enjolras relaxed. 

He vanished suddenly, all heat and bulk drawing away, and Enjolras’ eyes flew open, a sound of discontent slipping out before he could stop it. Grantaire had only gotten to his feet to grab the tissues, and he came back with a smile. “Hey,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss Enjolras gently, slowly. “You okay?” 

“Mmmmm.” Enjolras smiled up at him, eyelids heavy, and Grantaire sighed, pressing their foreheads together for a second before he sat back and started wiping Enjolras’ stomach and chest, then his entrance. Enjolras twitched at that, still sensitive, and Grantaire grinned, trailing fingers up Enjolras’ side to his arm, and up to where the sheet was wound tight around his wrists and hands. 

“So hey,” Grantaire said softly, chucking the used tissues onto the floor carelessly and stretching out against Enjolras’ body. “I think the sheet worked pretty well, don’t you?” 

“Very well,” Enjolras murmured, drinking in the sight of Grantaire next to him, naked and spent. “I’d kind of like my hands back now though.” 

“On it,” Grantaire assured him, sitting up a little to lift the edge of the mattress up. He fumbled around for a few seconds, then came back and guided Enjolras’ tied hands down below his shoulders. “It wasn’t too tight?” 

“No,” Enjolras breathed out and let his eyes fall closed. Grantaire kissed his cheek and freed his hands carefully, stroking the skin as it was revealed. “It was perfect. Thank you.” 

Grantaire spread the sheet out over them and hooked an arm over Enjolras’ chest, an ankle over his leg, cuddling as close as he could. “I love you,” he whispered against Enjolras’ jaw. “I mean, you probably knew that already, but just in case, I figure now’s as good a time as any to tell you.” 

He had to be having some sort of heart attack. There was no other explanation for the ballooning sensation in his chest. Enjolras rolled onto his side and found Grantaire’s lips with his own, kissing him slowly while he twined their legs closer together and slid a hand between them to run his thumb along Grantaire’s jawline, slightly prickly and rough. “I knew,” he breathed when they parted. “I mean, I know. And I love you too, by the way. In case you didn’t know.” 

Grantaire gazed at him in silence for a long moment, eyes noting and cataloguing every tiny movement Enjolras made. No one had ever observed Enjolras as closely as Grantaire did, memorising his expressions and tracing the lines of his skin with fingers, lips, tongue, teeth. No one else could absorb it all and put it on paper. No one else made him feel this treasured. He doubted anyone else ever could. 

Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment and smiled, the barest lift of his lips. “Say again?” 

Enjolras pressed his lips against Grantaire’s cheek, near his ear. “I love you,” he whispered. Stroked a palm down Grantaire’s back and moved his mouth to Grantaire’s jaw. “I love you.” Hovering over Grantaire’s lips, close enough to just brush them with his own. “I love you.” 

Grantaire sighed and kissed him with just an edge of desperation, clinging tight to every part of Enjolras he could touch, and Enjolras pulled him closer, closing the last gaps between them and curving into it as much as he could. 

Later, Grantaire would paint him again, stretched out and half-asleep on the bed. Enjolras would roll his shoulders and yawn, and before he left in the morning, Grantaire would use a felt-tipped marker to write directly onto his skin. A small, stylised ‘R’ in the dip below the joint of his hip, hidden from everyone but them, and Enjolras would imagine he could feel it there and smile every time he thought of it. 

In the present, they curled around each other and fell asleep slowly, relaxed and comfortable where they were, happy for the time being to let the rest of the world forget them for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Look at this!](http://myrmidryad.tumblr.com/post/135265133855/damecatoe-grantaire-had-never-spoken-about-work) Look at this beautiful cover for this fic that damecatoe made! It's gorgeous! :'D
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider [buying me a coffee!](https://ko-fi.com/A221HQ9) <3


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